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.