He says he wants to be a doctor
a psychologist, I thought maybe
but "No, a doctor," he assures me.

He rests his scalpel in the hollow of my neck
his eyebrows are dog-eared
he slides the knife down along my breast bone
cutting through my tissue paper skin.

"Once more," he says "this time for the bone,"
I nod, of course.

He places the knife back at my throat,
and traces the first line, pressing through my breast bone.

He lies the scalpel by my head
and gently lifts my ribs open,
like french doors.

A sparrow sits in the open cage,
still too downy to fly it peers up at us.
The doctor gently cups the little bird
and lifts her from her bone cage.

He walks with her to the window
where a nest waits for her on the ledge.
Then he returns to me,
I watch curiously as he folds my ribs back together,
and sows me up with a vogue designer's finesse.

I look down at my chest,
he has embroidered morning glories
along the stitching.

I smile and say,
"Thank-you, Doctor."