Deep Breath

The paper on the table is thin and it tears

when I shift my weight or move my feet.

It sticks to my skin while the doctor stares

at a chart that says my heart is a regular beat.

"Sorry," he says, and then comes the bite

of the silver disc pressed hard to my lung.

It’s a shock of the winter, a sudden, cold fright

that kills any word that was on my tongue.

I breathe in deep like he tells me to do,

feeling the metal pull heat from my chest.

It’s a mechanical way of looking right through

to the part of the machine that is doing its best.