by Arden Levine

She held, in beautiful unadorned hands,
a hardcover book.
She read it, regarded the room,
reflected. Patient.

The hardcover book
sat closed and attentive
reflected her, patient,
as he explained to her the procedure.

Sitting close and attentive,
the light above washed her pale
as he explained the procedure
and what it would be like after.

The light above washed her pale;
her hair fell around her face.
And what it would be like, after?
She rested the book on its spine.

Her hair fell around her face
as she removed her clothes;
she rested the book on its spine
creased and split to center.

She removed her clothes
and became part of the table.
Spine creased, she split to center,
forefingers touching like a circuit.

Once her spine was part of the table
he inserted rods in her to open her.
Her fingers, touching like a circuit,
resembled the thin metal rods.

As he inserted rods in her to open her
she started to bleed. A machine
with a sound resembling thin metal rods
clattered like coarse wind chimes.

She started to bleed into the machine,
which extracted a condition from her.
And a clattering like coarse wind chimes
sounded in her body cavity. Emptied,

her face a confusion of threads,
extracted from the table, a conditional object,
emptied of sound, her body an aching cavity,
she arose. She arranged her limbs.

She held herself, beautiful and unadorned.
Someone had shut the book, her page was lost.
He had left, the walls were quiet.
She read the textured walls, regarded the room.

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Arden Levine’s poems have most recently appeared in Cream City Review, Harvard Review, Indiana Review, The Lifted Brow (Australia), and Zone 3. Arden lives in New York City, and her daily work as an urban planner focuses on housing affordability, homelessness prevention, and equitable community development. Her chapbook, Ladies' Abecedary, is forthcoming from Harbor Editions.