Inauguration, 2017
Katherine Hoerth
October 23, 2020
It seemed appropriate, a biopsy
scheduled for this January morning.
In the waiting room, you watched the news
as the president-elected arrived,
and wondered how to calm your anxious nerves.
You hear your name. A nurse assistant weighs
you, glances at your chart and feigns a smile.
You’ve lost a few more pounds. A Rabbi says
a prayer for America, a prayer
you want to wrap around your skin and bones.
The nurse hands you a little cup to fill,
and as the president stands up to take
his oath, you sit in silence in the bathroom.
He’s done before you, so you miss the moment:
history, your story, juxtaposed.
You lie in bed and watch the spectacle.
The nurse says, I won’t lie. It’s gonna hurt,
then sticks a needle in your bony wrist.
You halfway listen to his speech. She’s right.
She grabs her clipboard, reads you all the risks:
loss of blood (but we all bleed in red),
lingering pain (how many years of it?),
you might not wake up from the anesthesia
(will we ever wake up from this slumber?).
You sign it all away. The price is great.
Your fear is greater. As they sit for lunch,
(steak, you hear before you’re wheeled away)
you arrive in the OR. The lights
are dim but you can hear a cumbia
playing softly as another nurse
preps the doctor’s instruments. He sways
his hips and monitors your heart beat, hums
in perfect tunes and sings along, his voice
a whisper, and you feel relieved, at home,
not cold and naked underneath this blanket
with a room of men who soon will cut
a piece of you away. You figure now,
the politicians and the president
make small talk as they sip from champagne flutes
about a wall to keep the others out.
The doctor enters, and you recognize
her gentle voice, the way she rolls her r’s,
the careful way she says your German name,
the heavy diphthong like a piece of steak
on her nimble Costa Rican tongue.
She tells you everything will be ok.
You blink. You breathe. The gas invades your nostrils.
The world around blurs and turns to fog.
In Recovery, the television
drones as you sleep. The president devours
a giant piece of steak with chocolate sauce.
You haven’t eaten anything for days.
Your heart rate slows. The nurse begins to wonder
if you’ll ever wake. She shakes your body,
calls your name, but all you hear is silence.
She puts her knuckles to your chest and thrusts.
Today, your body is America:
mortal, fragile as a clavicle,
missing a piece of you, but breathing still.
This sickness didn’t happen overnight.
This darkness grew inside of you unseen,
one cell at a time. You wake. Your tongue
clunks in your mouth. You want to thank the nurse
who combs your tangled hair, unties your gown,
who helps you in your panties and your bra.
On the news, you watch the new first lady
greet the crowd. She’s elegant in white.
The doctor comes to see you, shows you pictures
of the depths of you. You cringe and face
your darkness, what you hid beneath your clothes,
your skin, your flesh, all in the open now.
Am I gonna be ok? you ask.
The doctor smiles and pats your shoulder, fills
you with the hope that only she can give.
You sigh and glance up at the television
as the president begins to work.
He slides a pen across a piece of paper
and you wonder where this world is headed,
if the body has the strength to fight
the coming darkness. We’ll know soon, she says,
once the biopsy results come in.
Katherine Hoerth is an assistant professor of English at Lamar University and editor-in-chief of Lamar University Literary Press. She won the 2015 Helen C. Smith Prize for Goddess Wears Cowboy Boots. In 2020, her fourth poetry collection, Borderland Mujeres, will be released by SFAU Press.
