Conductive

The paper on the table crinkles

every time I shift my weight.

She doesn't warn me, she just reaches

under the thin cotton of the gown.

The silver disk is a frozen coin

pressed into the meat of my back.

I suck in air, a sharp, cold shock

that travels through the ribs to the center.

She moves it in circles, listening

to the wet machinery of my breath.

It’s a heavy, metallic judgment,

waiting for the heart to admit

to everything it hasn't said.