THE AUTOPSY
To explore when the female body becomes something to be examined, measured, and reduced.
Laid me out under white light,
like a question,
needing an answer.
Outlines circled,
pens like teeth,
hands ready,
gloved in opinion.
Measured the gaps,
the usefulness of thighs,
noting harsh flaws,
in neat blue ink.
Here, the breast,
too much, not enough.
Here, the stomach,
guilty of softness.
Here, the face,
failing to please.
Avoided opening me,
claiming to know,
already deciding,
what was wrong.
Taught,
a woman can be living,
still up for examination,
like damage.
I became still,
cold as the tray,
they placed me on,
conscious,
watching them search,
for a fault,
regardless if successful,
cutting me is their hobby.
