A doctor tells me to align my joints
        “More normally”
        to “play a sport”
that I will be “cured by 
        sleeping better”
that every ache or cough or injury is just
        (& also Justice)
because I am fat.

A doctor tells me, when I am struggling to stay alive
when I cannot eat from sorrow my
spirit made hollow from
Grief, that
The diminishing number on the hallway scale is
        “a good problem to have.”

A doctor smirks as she orders me 
        to lift my breasts
        the apron of my belly
        the folded softness of my thighs aside
to check for skin cancer.

I hear a doctor’s snide laughter in the hallway     
        after.