Dead Weight in the Clinic

The nurse’s arms were dry and cool,

a clinical grip beneath my pits

to haul me from the leather chair

to where the crinkled paper sits.

That paper has a certain sound,

a high and sharp, aggressive tear.

I felt my center of gravity shift

and spill into the sterile air.

It is a heavy thing to be,

to let the muscle go quite slack

and trust a stranger’s sturdy knees

to move you there and bring you back.