“A Prayer to Cathy McMorris Rodgers for the Preservation of My Health Insurance” by Kate Lebo

Cathy, when you were a doctor

did you hate how our government bossed you,

 

how The Man just had to get his hand

in there? I need to know, Cathy. I’m scared. I wake up

 

counting my pills and the days I’ll need my pills,

which are unknown, so let’s call them endless.

 

I admit I wasn’t living right.

I used myself roughly and I

 

enjoyed it,

drank milk and whiskey

 

and assumed these pleasures were normal.

I know–you’ve taught me to know–

 

my health is my responsibility. It is just

to blame myself for depending on the government,

 

just as I blame myself for choosing

the wrong profession.

 

Poetry. Ha!

Who thought that would work?

 

 

But I call this work, Cathy, I do.

I’m working right now, so hard,

 

writing you. It is work to consider

what a big job you have, and yet

 

it is not your job to meet me for coffee

or in the aisle, nor is it your job

 

to hear me, Kate Lebo,

above the throng I belong to,

 

(one woman on a block of women in a town of women­–

half of whom will pass your seventh term snug

 

in victory, their favorite Cathy on the job)

but I wish we could get a drink

 

anyway. You might find me ready

for the doctor, ready

 

to confess. I already know

what you’ll say. Don’t hate

 

your representative.

Hate what she represents.