Studying his crooked teeth as he talks,
she scrawls notes
in a shorthand she makes up.
The doctor’s eyes are too kind,
though he is ripping away the camouflage
she’d worn like a Communion veil.
She longs to slip between the office blinds
where dusk beckons,
to lie in the night,
to soften into sleep.
She could grab this man by his starched collar,
his cheerful tie,
whisk him into a dark wood,
commit with him a mortal sin
if he would take back what he said.