I’m pretty sure the table is the island 
rolled in from the kitchen, 
its metal cold on my back.
‍
They don’t put me under, but unzip me
forehead to pelvis and down 
the inner seam of each thigh.
‍
Peering in they sigh and get to work.
They decoupage magazine cutouts onto my brain,
make my hands itch

with a green rash and an urge to spend.
Program my legs and voice to wobble
if I wander too far from the pack.
‍
They stretch my stomach 
and shrink my heart.
Inject insecticides into my uterus.
‍
Already their faces
evaporate from my memory
as I pencil in my next appointment.