Still Breathing

The hallway smells like

disinfectant layered over something older—

something the cleaning can't touch.

I sit on the exam table.

Paper crinkles beneath me.

There's a calendar on the wall

from two years ago.

Nobody took it down.

The smell is worst by the sink.

That's where they wash their hands

after they've finished

measuring you, writing down

what your body has been hiding.

Everything here is meant

to be sterile. Clean.

But the smell keeps

slipping through—

the thing underneath

that soap won't kill.

I breathe through my mouth

like it helps.

Like I'm not already

part of this air,

already breathing in

the fact of being a body

that will leave this room

still mostly intact.

The doctor says everything is fine.

I leave the building

still breathing it.