Love

by Christie Maurer

Sunita, Sunita, Sunita is her name; I am in

love with her. I am naked waiting beneath this

paper gown for her to appear. Long black

hair, cinnamon skin, lab coat, stethoscope

cold against my chest, heartbeat in her ear.

My stirrup-ed feet. Her voice syrups my

aches. Take a deep breath and hold still.

Opened—sensation that cleaves to my throat.

I am in love with her. She looks into me

through the plastic, beak-nosed dilator at my

cervix, swabbing with a long Q-tip, wet with

acid. Hold still. The ceiling, my held breath.

Pliers on the metal tray. The paper tent of my

thighs, she enters, light illumines patterned

print. 3’clock, 8’clock, 11 she calls. She snips.

Samples. I’m not allowed to look. Breathe.

Heavy-lidded, eyes like a mother I almost

remember, she takes my hand when I start to

faint. I want to stay. This room, the lights,

pointed tools. Maybe I can be fixed. Maybe

there is a God who loves me. Sunita, take me

home and sing to me. I’ve waited through decades

for a woman like you.