Give up, duck, give in. – Mary Swander
I am back, sitting
without my shirt
on the table
in exam room two
my favorite.
The sky outside
is free of geese
and the minion
the dermatologist
sends in to cut away
another chunk
of my neck
grew up on the river
hunting ducks
with her father.
As always, today
I can feel
each penetrating pass
of her blade, each
burning slice.
Later, as she sews me up
I can also feel
her quick scuttling
fingertips moving
the way they must have moved
swimming up, sliding
along ribs, loosening
lungs, grabbing
heart, trachea
then emptying
the whole body
with one great pull.