Yield

The chair drops and my stomach stays

somewhere near the ceiling.

The technician has hands that smell like

powder and bitter soap.

'Open wide,' she says, like I'm five.

I look up into the round chrome lamp.

My own eyes are two dark, distorted beads

staring back from the curve.

I can’t even swallow.

I just lie there while the metal hook

scrapes at the things I’ve let go.