Gazes, T.S. Hidalgo

Mark Terry, “Faceted tea bowl,” 5 x 5 x 4, wood-fired stoneware, Noble Hill Anagama





A refrigerator slides down the street,
moved by the wind.
Its owner chases it.
“I’m a doctor!,” “I’m a doctor!,”
she will have to say,
this woman, some time later,
in a courtroom.
Mrs. Toolson is eight months pregnant:
she cannot hinder the very sophisticated,
and shiny,
kitchen appliance on wheels,
nor can the employees of the funeral parlor
(nor the people leaving the costume party).
“I’m a doctor!,” “I’m a doctor!,”
she will repeat, some time later,
in a courtroom.
Neither can Mr. Cooper,
at the wheel of his lawnmower,
nor the soccer playing sons
of Mr. and Mrs. Liverpool
(mathematicians, these:
a subtle metaliterary premonition:
two Venn diagrams overlap
in the story we are dealing with:
sinister NGO and illegal cornea transplant).
“I’m a doctor!,” “I’m a doctor!,”
in a courtroom.
The shiny kitchen appliance on wheels
starts rolling uphill
after reaching the bottom,
and finally disappears into the mist;
it later reappears after impact:
some mods with their forty-mirror Lambrettas
with a figurine hanging
inside the windshield
(it’s the Queen of England, waving).
“I’m a doctor!,” “I’m a doctor!”
The gazes of some women
(dressed as punks),
“They look like upside down brooms,”
the doctor will have to say,
in a courtroom,
emanate curiosity, also caution;
now faced with the open fridge, fear;
now everyone, arranged in a semi-circle,
was behind them.
“I’m a doctor!,” “I’m a doctor!,”
she will repeat, barefoot,
in a courtroom.

T.S. Hidalgo

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