plastic woman

On the osteopath’s table my contours expand.

Dr. B aligns the pelvis, the one stubborn rib that protrudes

since the car accident. Up to three men at a time work

on me in this cramped room. The percussion hammer

taps its familiar Morse code across my plantar fasciitis.

Despite wearing a baggy shirt and sweats, modesty

evolves into a mere concept since I’m almost spread-eagle

like at the OB/GYN’s. One guy cups his hands into

a shovel and scoops beneath the hips, rocking my tailbone

back and forth, back and forth. Necessity teaches us

to make the personal impersonal. The scrubs chat football

as they twist and turn me like a rotisserie chicken.

My devoted husband who sits in the corner joins

the conversation, just one more in a long line of men

to whom I’ve surrendered this body.