by Georgia Tindale
In winter when we walked on
oil slick tarmac, you told me to
hold on to the time we have.
I looked down at you and laughed
and the night hid your frown.
I missed the signs. Now you hold your
books up to your face and breathe.
Inhaling knowledge like a drug
you can’t get enough.
When we make love, you peel off my skin
and watch my body blue and bloated
like the ones you deconstruct with
a scalpel. Your palms sweat as you
flip me over and sit back at your desk,
where the blank submissive page
The Medic’s Wife was previously selected for the creative writing anthology of Georgia Tindale’s undergraduate college, the University of Birmingham, in the UK.