Cindy Veach

IN WHICH I SUBMIT TO THE MACHINE

The scan, in which they check up on my post
menopausal bones—the amount of mineral density
in the lumbar spine, left hip, right hip
as if I’m some kind of deeply dug, excavated, exhausted,
robbed of riches mine about to calve its scaffolding—
is painless. The best kind of test to have
to have. Like me, the machine is silent
and white. It glides over my body
without touching my body—a benevolent
hand assessing my aging ramparts.
I do my part. Lie exactly as instructed.
Lie still. Lie hands at my sides. Lie
like the good girl I am—knees up
on the Plexiglas block, ankles turned
out, tied in place, tight, but not too tight.

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