The Exam

The paper under my thighs

sounds like someone tearing a letter.

In the next room,

a keyboard is stuttering.

The doctor doesn’t say hello,

just moves the silver disc

against my ribs.

It sticks for a second, a wet coin

pulled from the bottom of a fountain.

Take a breath, he says.

But the cold has locked the air

in the back of my throat,

and the verdict is still

waiting in his pen.