In the Waiting Room of a Fertility Doctor

By Kayla MacKenzie

Vivian watches a drinking bird—

one of those tacky toys,

where the bird continuously dips its beak into the water,

and for some reason wears a top hat—

as she sits in Dr. Van’s office.

It bobs incessantly, silently,

goggle-eyed and idiotic.

Vivian hates that goddamn bird.

She’s been waiting for over fifteen minutes already,

and, as her husband is always quick to say,

patience is unlearned in her case.

She tries to read all of the titles clustered

on the doctor’s sturdy oak shelves,

but most of them are Latin

or simply convoluted to her.

She counts,

she imagines: shoving Dr. Van’s antique glass globe over

                                                          to see it shatter,

snapping the drinking bird in two,

jumping from the three-story window

                                             into the bushes below,

rifling through his desk drawers.

She doesn’t move.