Examining the Abused Woman

Her face, when she turns, is like a peach
left in the refrigerator drawer too long,

nose and cheek caved in, as if underneath
the fleshy matrix has been chewed away. 

When I ask past medical history, she lists
the broken bones:

Humerus, ulna, sternum, nose.  Jaw, twice,
eye socket, she points, here. 

I palpate her face, dip my fingers
in the little valley of the clavicle, scared

to press too hard.  I see her bare.
She breathes, I listen with a stethoscope,

her breath like wind drawn down a New York alleyway. 
All the time we talk. 

I memorize her puffy feet, her pubic hair,
the scars that rise like topographic maps

across her abdomen.  Hand slicked
with lubricant, I probe to touch her ovaries,

hold her uterus between my open palms.
She says she lives in Westchester, a home of sorts.

I finish the exam.  She dresses and, not looking up,
thanks me for being kind.   How could I say

It’s no use to hate or I bless you with my fingertips?
It’s me who is afraid.

*First appeared in Kalliope