Through the small opening in the doorway
of room 317, I could see the silhouette
of Dr. Feldman, encircled by five of his
hand-picked IVY-League medical students,
his fancy pen--his own
practice’s name engraved on it in shiny, gold cursive--
was pointing out all of the unfortunate details
of my x-ray.

He came inside and sat down in his rolly stool.
Wrinkles curved like the waves of an angry ocean
across his large and sweaty forehead,
his brows narrowed and his eyes--
the bright blue ones like the color of his surgical
mask that have put me into a deep, discomforting
slumber thirteen times before--now refused to even
glance at mine.

He proceeds to explain the construction of all of the
tangled, stiff, weak and tenuous ligaments in my knee:
the ones that are aching and clicking and popping
with each step like bubble wrap
in a box containing fragile objects.
Fancy medical words roll down his tongue, tumbling
forcefully out of his mouth and buzzing around my ears
like a swarm of bees ready to sting you.
I’ve been stung before. Try me.

“Arthritis,” he spits.
This one stings, not like the other yellow jackets,
but like the unmerciful horse fly: the one you’re
most afraid of, the one lurking under your porch steps
and waits for you to accidentally step on it. My organs
curl and tense the same way his chapped and brittle lips
form an unsettling frown that spirals downwards
with each breath.

And at last he looks at me.
Rather, he looks through me,
his eyes piercing
as if he has the same x-ray vision as the machine itself.
My contents that I’ve worked so hard to disguise
are suddenly thrust into the open,
causing my heart to swell
and little pools of exposure glaze my eyes.