BMI 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.