Bedside Manner
Old magazines filled with
nothing. What a waste.
The bed with the paper
bitches about flesh and
leakage and how they all
beg for the gift-wrapped
fiction of their bodies,
for someone to tie it up
nicely with ornamental
knot, to figure it out,
figure it out, for the
love of god, once and for
all. The nurse laughs and
types up the symptoms and
checks all the boxes. One
box is on the floor calling
out numbers, more numbers
to note. The plastic nipple
pokes into a tepid ear.
As of this moment I still
have all my clothes on,
but he comes, listens and
thinks. Thinks and thinks.
And says the pants have
to go, and we both reach
for the button and zipper.
I'm certain there's something
to be said for hesitation
in this instant but his
fingers and thumbs unfasten
me and that can't be right.
What was that. This keeps
getting messier, and I am
tilting and pale above
the fabric, which I only now
realize is also me, while
he gloves a hand and finishes
what I started. Centuries
since a skilled doctor would
sample my blood, give my urine
a taste, we fumble around in
this dark intimacy like nothing
has changed. He whips out
a six-syllable condition to
defend himself, followed by
a definition which includes
it could go away, it could
get worse, it could matter
or not. Further tests could
be more definitive or as
definitive as they've been
so far. But my age, risks,
and family history. But
my anxiety. But my pain
rating and femaleness, but
just in case. He's thinking.
Lauren Bender lives in Burlington, VT and is editor in chief of Mud Season Review. Her work has appeared in IDK Magazine, The Collapsar, Gyroscope Review, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Yes Poetry, and others. You can find her on twitter @benderpoet.