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Miracle Worker, Metamorphosis, Form 42

Poems by Mel Thompson

Homemade Insanity

Miracle Worker

I’m sitting across from a watery-eyed man with a tight-lipped smile—
there’s a faded ink stain on the cuff of his painfully white dress shirt,
and his glasses don’t quite sit right on his face.
I tell him about the time I stuck my fingers around a candle wick,
just outside the flame’s reach so I could feel the heat without the burn.
I notice there’s still ash beneath my pinky nail,
though he’s too busy scribbling to notice.
He asks if I think I’m kind.
I show him the yellow parking ticket I found on my windshield
and the four tubes of lipstick I took from the drugstore for safekeeping.
I say there are days when I smile so bright, I burn to a crisp,
and others where I shrink down so small, I want the universe to swallow me
like a pill she had forgotten to take the night before.
He tells me I must be a very complex woman,
to which I say that all people are complicated if you stare for long enough.
I tell him sometimes I dream about my own hands wrapped around my throat
and how I wake, disappointed, when I end up gasping for air.
I show him the orange bottle I’ve tucked into my purse
in case I wake one morning and decide I’ve made up my mind for good,
then the ink marks down my chest where I’ve tried and failed to be dissected.
He crinkles his nose as he switches to a red pen, trying not to meet my eyes.
I say there are evenings where the stars are watching me,
and others where I scorn the sky atop my shoulders.
That I am either sharp or round but never both,
that I want to circle myself down sink drains
and invite the world to join.
He hands me a tablet without any water.
I chew it between my teeth as I recall the poem I wrote in nail polish on my bathroom mirror.
I go to read it to him, but he’s already left the room

Metamorphosis

I’m sitting on my hands while nurses come and go;
each one, tired eyed, not looking in my direction,
asks me how I’m feeling before they rush out of the room.
I writhe, I twitch, I squirm. Rita opens a drawer, pulls out a fresh needle,
and forgets to lock the cabinet behind her. I watch Anne
whisk her way out to the hall, then Trevor follow on his tiptoes.
Foam dribbles through my teeth, down my chin
and onto the floor. It sizzles before it dissipates.
I’m rocking in my chair, seared by the fluorescents above me,
as the doctor enters with a clipboard. He asks my name,
except I can’t remember my age, or why I’m here or why this matters.
My nails grow an inch. I say I’m fine, I think, just when I forget to blink,
I stretch larger and smaller all at once; I can’t help but howl at the moon.
He nods His head and chews His pen, swallowing the words
I do not intend as poetry.
He says nothing as He sits and scribbles, sweat stains poking
through His coat. If I listen close, I can hear the voice
of every living thing in the room—I say to someone
I wonder if I’m human more than I wonder if I’m good,
if my hopes will ever lead me to certainty. The doctor blinks
as my skin twitches, fur sprouting from my chin. He scratches
His nose before He turns to leave.
A nurse takes my hand and I’m brought to stand,
then walked down the hall on all fours. Lorraine pats my back;
Amy scratches my head; I sign my name in ink. I say blue’s
my favourite colour since it’s always in the sky, and they laugh loudly
while a front door opens; I say there are days I wish I knew I was a beast
and their smiles, their maws, gape wider—I say I’m afraid,
if changing can’t be a choice, if ‘me’ and ‘I’ can’t align; then Grace takes my collar,
Ronnie unclips my lead, Tracey shushes me, shoves me, sends me,
hackles raised, into the night.

Form 42

The man in the black took my shoelaces and my journal.
He’s reclined in his chair, crossed legs up on his desk,
licking his finger before he turns over each page.
My jacket’s thrown over his shoulders, but he’s too broad for it to zip.
My socks stick to the floor like old gum.

I’ve been handed a sandwich, consisting of stale bread and cheese,
with a note that reads, “NO FORK/NO KNIFE.”
I think of my schoolteachers and their critiques of my cursive,
how my o’s never sloped quite correctly;
my m’s far too pointed, my r’s far too round,
blending in with my n’s and my u’s. Too sharp, too slippery,
too messy for a gold-starred GOOD JOB!

You should eat, the clipboard says, you could be here for a while,
and I mash up the food into a ball. I consider carefully,
slowly, the size of my throat, how often children
must choke themselves on grapes.
I swallow. I do not drink.

You’re lucky you’re safe here, he calls, over from his place,
and I’m reminded of my mother’s Sunday dinners.
A fork in my left and a blade in my right,
the time I fell, face-first, into my steak.

I’ve no plans, I say again, and he lifts up his chin,
patting my head like I’ve shown him my belly.
I wonder if butchers, or hunters, or surgeons,
behold their creatures before turning them to meat—

There’s no mirror in the bathroom, but I imagine my skin is sallow,
sinking in beneath my cheekbones and eyes;
My skull, in spite of me, refuses to hide.

May I go? I ask his shoulder, it’s just a nick in my thigh,
and he closes my notebook’s final page.
Is that it? He responds, unsatisfied with my ending,
Is that all that you have to say?

My gown tightens around my throat,
hesitation caught in its fist, prongs digging their nails into my will—
he smiles so wide I can see each of his pointed teeth,
and I know that it’s my time to stand.

I twirl then I curtsy,
I smile my rotten teeth,
and I’m the belle of his linoleum ball.

The doctor never arrives.

About the Author – Mel Thompson

Mel Thompson

Mel Thompson (they/she) is a lesbian poet, theatre creator and Notes app enthusiast. Their work explores the self as a fluid entity, shaped by evolving cultural contexts that influence language and identity. They are a current fellow of the P.K. Page Spoken Word Mentorship programme, facilitated by The League of Canadian Poets. Mel is a former LGBT+ Writer in Residence with the City of Brampton and the 2018 recipient of the Jessamy Stursberg Poetry Prize for Canadian Youth. 

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