When The Patient Asked For A White Doctor

Her temple smeared across my walls,

I bowed beneath her stream.

Two arcs of piss & bloody vomit

shot inside the MRI machine.

The half-moon rolled back and she

emerged beneath me. My: too much

brown, too much blush, too many

lashes to heal, rattled loose in a split

mouth like crack rocks. She spewed

a bloody history: my people, her father,

some agony at the West Midlands Area

Conservative Society. When she groaned

Ain’t No Black In The Union Jack,

I tempered the pain—oxycodone

for one, high grade the other, ditched

my beeper in her cradle. Switched scrubs

for straps & animal skins in the back seat

of an Audi TT. I saged my hair with a blunt.

Danced away her ruin beneath a black

girl’s melody.