Pap Smear
By Ally Ang
The receptionist hands me a survey:
How many sexual partners have you had?
Are they male or female? I lie
.
like I always do. The magazine in the waiting room
tells me that I can get a flat stomach
from a diet of quinoa and asparagus. My stomach
.
is not flat. It hangs over the front of my jeans
like a coin purse bursting with organs. The doctor
asks if I have a boyfriend, if he treats me nice,
.
while she spreads my legs. One foot
into the stirrup, then the other. You may experience
some slight discomfort. A shock of cold metal
.
disrupts my breath, curls my toes
while the exam table paper crinkles
beneath bare flesh. I have opinions
.
about the instrument of violence
holding my body open, its history
too brutal for metaphor, but I keep them
.
to myself. The doctor makes me laugh while her hand
is inside me and it’s just like love, except she is also
scraping cells from my cervical canal.
.
When she’s done, she leaves the room while I re-dress
under the guise of modesty, as though
she was not just elbow-deep in the warmest
.
parts of me. I pray that my results will come back
clear, that my cells will not be found wanting.
I leave the office, microscopically smaller
.
than I was before.