You instruct me to either sit or lie down.

Sometimes there is a white sheet,

A cotton-polyester weave or blend of sorts.

And sometimes it is just paper that covers

The brown-gray faux leather of the bench beneath it.

The gown faces forwards or backwards.

Exposure is imminent either way.

So, let’s begin.

 

I am ready to share all my injuries,

Visible and invisible,

To take you through my timeline freckle by freckle,

Mole by mole,

From the pale white lines on my nails

To the dry circles on my elbows.

Can they reveal my age

When bared like the trunk of a tree?

 

You ask why I am here,

And I tell you about

The mysteries of life

Imprinted on my body.

That’s what I want to discuss.

To get to the crux of these maladies.

From first blood to last,

To investigate all the questions of womanhood,

Even though we both know

The real answers will elude us in this fifteen-minute slot.

 

For now, you depress my tongue with a flat stick

And stare into the cavity of words unspoken,

Wrap my upper arm in a vice and

Squeeze my heart for information

I would have divulged willingly.

You weigh me and this is when I want to tell you

That my regrets weigh heavy on me.

Instead, I’m silent as you check my pulse,

And I sigh only when you listen to me breathe.

 

Anyway.

If you want to prod and poke I won’t hold back.

I’ll open where you want me to

And keep the rest zipped nice and tight.

I’ll play my part

And watch you nod and wish me well.

Then you’ll leave to let me dress,

As if the modesty is in my nakedness,

And the covering requires privacy;

As if the true vulnerability is in the reapplication of each carefully folded item

Recovered from the chair,

Discarded like an identity

We knew I’d need to shed

In pursuit of a diagnosis.