I admit I don’t know what her book’s about,
this upholstery’s itchy, unkind,
an asymmetrical design that hurts my brain
hovering near the humming fluorescents,
flagged hazardous by facilities management,
mercurial. What does her womb look like
through a lubricated transducer,
bigger, honestly, than my vibrator?
Does she have a high pain threshold?
That particular room was emptier
than this one now echoing
with mouth-washed talk of rank, value,
the new committee on committees,
her commitment to equity.
Feigned laughter. I serve at her pleasure
& I guess I prefer her
to the examination table
where I lay down, legs open, powerless,
like I prefer my coffee-stained blouse
to that perverse paper dress.
Am I contingent? Exempt? Am I eligible
for a cost-of-living adjustment?
This isn’t a negotiation
though I admire your candor
while I stare through her,
the September sun spent, the shadows
dense & cavernous on my scan.
Lindsay Bernal
Lindsay Bernal is the author of What It Doesn't Have to Do With (University of Georgia Press, 2018), winner of the National Poetry Series. Poems from her second manuscript have appeared or are forthcoming in Georgia Review, the Hopkins Review, New England Review, Oversound, and other journals.
