By Danika Poon
doubt is all that is fed to me.
by relatives,
peers,
classmates,
then colleagues.
when i tell them
i’m going into orthopedic surgery.
their skepticism
fill the air
like an acrid smell;
its sting
not all that different from antiseptic.
they say,
good luck with that,
trying to find a husband in medical school?
leaving only
a legacy of disbelief and misogyny.
this,
is what i will remember you for:
microaggressions
you’ve disguised as concerns:
is it that time of the month?
they won’t work for a woman.
what lies between my legs,
what pronouns i choose to identify with,
the weaknesses that you have deemed mine
plays no detrimental part
in my monopoly of medicine,
but fuels
the very reason i’ll work
to defy you.
