by Sarah Emmett
God taps on the door
and enters in a white lab coat.
He has glasses and clean hands.
He could smile but he doesn’t
—he knows what he’s doing.
He rolls up on a little stool,
careful and sure.
He asks me how I’m feeling
and wants the truth too.
He washes his hands,
cold and strong.
Touches my navel.
Is there health?
Touches my spine.
Is there marrow?
Brisk and kind.
The answer is no.
He looks me in the eye
and uses words I don’t understand
to tell me about death.
He could cry but he doesn’t
—he knows what he’s doing.
Thanks for coming in.
Wait God, will you be there when I die?
He’s a good doctor,
but not because he heals.
The answer is yes.
Sarah Emmett is a history major from Springville, Utah. She enjoys fresh fruit, skiing, and New Girl.
