She puts on the protective gown for this one,
sky-blue, crepe paper–like. She asks again
for me to verify name, date of birth,
checking what I say against the information
on the small plastic bag she shows to me
before hanging it upside down, its contents
impossibly clear, benign-looking
as water coursing the clearest bore—
umbilical-like that almost invisible line.
The trees outside the tall window appear
still full with summer, crows’ flight—more
like drunken tumbling—something to see
while I agree that yes, yes, this is me.