Poetry

The Tiger Who Came For Me

 No Doctor, I will not show you my stripes;
If you can afford to make cuts so can I.
Nothing is left; everything is taken,
I turn to food, it’s natural; the food chain.
Food – comfort – survival.
I turn to drink, to blur the ink on my patient’s notes
But you’ve taken it all
Even the water from the taps.
Little Sophie can’t even have her baptism
And you refuse me the right to wash myself clean
Make myself better and get out of this hell.
Instead you claw away my fur and skin
So you can make a carpet from my sin
And at night, when my fur is keeping you warm
And my punishments for living are feeding your kids,
Don’t dream of me and the many thousands more,
Don’t turn back or blink an eye as you leave my ward.

Father
suggests we go out to eat
We make reservations at every institution you suggest,
But we’re passed from one to the other to the next
Each department ignoring our symptoms and needs,
Our hunger’s scream drowns in the crowd of other hungry screams
Our hollow eye sockets are normalised by this mortuary.

I restock the cupboards
Let you try something new
But Tiger, you’ll never be satisfied,
Until I die.

Lauren Cooper