I pee into a little plastic cup
write my name on it with a crayon.
The doctor taps my knee with her silly
rubber hammer, sticks an icy steel light
into the dark hallway of my eardrum.
She listens to me breathe, asks,
Has anything changed—appetite, diet,
sleep pattern, partners? I will lie to her
as she probes my stomach with her
excellent hands, tell her there’s a man
living inside the lower chamber of my heart
hiding inside a valve. She will instruct her nurse,
Maria, to press cold round discs onto my breasts
connect me to the machine. She will take
my blood, vial after vial and I will look away
knowing whatever they find will kill me
too slowly to matter. My blood is where
my secrets live. The man inside me whispers:
on your way out, grab some wet-naps
from the basket on the back of the toilet.
Get enough for me. I want to know what they feel like.