The first--
and only--
man I ever spread
my legs for is my
prehistoric-old urologist.

Before he takes his leave,
he instructs me to
take off my shorts and my *******,
lie down on the examination table,
then cover up beneath the white, papery sheet.

How every many minutes later,
he knocks on the door
to signal his re-entry.
A nurse accompanies him
back into the room.

Rubber gloves snap into place--
I flinch.

The doctor begins his examination,
presses down on my abdomen, which,
due to a late-night carb binge,
is hard, stomach flab unyielding.

Next,
I am told to place my feet
up on the stirrups.

"You can keep your shoes on,"
he reassures me.

As if a pair of flip flops are relevant
as he pulls apart the intimate folds of my flesh,
his latexed fingers sinking inside of me.

I close my eyes and
pretend I am not here at all.

And even though
I realize he is only
doing his job,
I can't help but muse--

I wish God was a woman
I wish God was a woman
I wish God was a woman.

I wish God was a woman.