Poem: Questions for the Doctor

Questions for the Doctor

Writer's block, pen hovering over
notepad and its small red font:
Questions for the Doctor.
Where do I start?
Was it the glass of wine my mother drank,
the one that committed her to AA
or was it my father with his alcoholic hands
or first grade, when I punched the teacher
or the time I left home?
Did it start with that first beer, age 14
or that first smoke, the first high,
the first drop out or the first pregnancy --
that first divorce?

Did it begin with the last time I believed
in social work, in welfare, in health and well being?
The last time I took my medications
or ate a warm meal
or remembered a day from start to finish?
Did it begin with the anorexia
or the skin popping
or the suicide attempts,
the broken jaw or the rash?

I erase everything I've written;
doctors write in pen, but I in pencil
for how could one live life without erasure?
This is the question I want to ask
and yet I don't know what to say
when she comes into the room
white coat, hair all business,
looks down at my wallowing face
flips through the chart for the number
I already know - less than 200 -
and tries to align resistances.
Oh, this will be the last time I get asked
that question, Questions for the Doctor
yet I am resigned to silence.