at the doctor's 
i lie about my weight.
i say i am made of approximately 
83 mourning doves 
or a teaspoon of goldfish or, 
on a good, day, i am one pelican.
BMI stands for body mass index.
an exam table
can be an altar 
if your cloth is wax.
a shuffling of fingers.
at night they way 
planets & tell the moon
she eats too many buckets
of sugar. i use
the smallest spoons i can find 
as reminders of 
the portions of fruit flies.
here is your waist 
& here is your fat around
the waist. i am wasting,
no away, but upward. 
so so tall & thin. so so 
neon drinking. a syringe 
full of flours in my forearm.
a doctor is measuring 
how much my soul weights.
this is all in preparation
for the final scales 
where a phantom dog
will way my heart
& determine 
if the summerland is ready
for another pair of feet.
a white room is always 
a kind of portrait.
notes buzz on a notepad.
what does the doctor
record? does he take 
the notes human & unspool them
for his own pleasure?
yes. several hundred hummingbirds 
could fit inside me.
yes, my bones are dense.
you could call me
a bolder of flesh. roll me
down a carpeted staircase.
teach my your diet physics 
& i will teach you mine.
a body is a dangerously
malleable starting place.
watch, i will show you 
how i move towards 
willow & sapling. doctor
with his teeth made of wood.
he shakes his head.
tells me i am
the heaviest possible object.
six or seven 
dead stars worth.
here i am.

3 thoughts on “07/23

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