Hasty hands write a name, an address, a phone number

data parts 

on a form for women that need a screen.

The stack of files under my desk 

comprised of these documents

grouped together because of a shared threat to their longevity

The healthcare system in this country more reminiscent of some odd fable

Access to medicine should be a human right, 

Ethics tells me

but this is not the land of equal opportunity.

That lofty waiting room, with clean-swept floors

and steam from hot coffee swirling to the ceiling while you wait for an appointment you made the same week

isn’t for you 

Not you, without an income 

No, you?

You can go to the emergency room

And if that doesn’t work for you? 

If that doesn’t work for you because you can barely stay groomed 

or because you need to save money to feed two 

not old enough to know the reason behind the shadow of your gloom 

you must wait. 

And so,

she waits. 

Placing the stack of papers under my desk, I wonder

if a tumour is angrily multiplying inside her

Furious cells invade into pink tissues they consume

making them bleed.

With hands clenched down tight, your knuckles turn white

as you bear down with all your might 

to try to stop the dark red from flowing forth 

onto that podium where lawmakers speak and

down into the crevices of those crystalline hospital rooms

Tears spill down, as you heave all your body weight forward 

Is there still a heartbeat?

We need more hands 

to stop this bleed 

for these women 

waiting.