My daughter is in Europe and took this picture. It is by Lorenzo Bartolini and titled, “Reclining Venus, after Titian”. I am not sure what the black dots are, seemed appropriate for this poem and her ennui is how I feel sometimes!

When My Acupuncturist Wants
to Look at My Tongue

I always fear
there is something wrong with me,
as if last week’s potato chips and chocolate
have mutated my taste buds,
little signposts, disclosing my unworthiness.
When my acupuncturist
holds my wrists to check my pulses
I am similarly aflutter,
surely he’ll note
my pitter patter, my inner clatter,
that my chakras aren’t spinning,
my blood isn’t zinging.

There are similar shames
as the dental hygienist probes beneath my gums,
she may reveal moral as well as mere decay.
Pap smears disclose soul dis-charge,
the blood pressure cuff, quantifies I am off.
Before being weighed,
I remove my shoes quickly,
the scale is a high dive board,
the sliding weight, a train caboose
nudging itself down the track,
always more than I expected.
When heartbroken,
pain centers in the brain are activated.
I wonder what damage I cause,
measuring myself,
both captive and captor.

My acupuncturist’s hair is thick,
his nail beds are perfectly oval.
He pokes me with thin needles,
springy as sponges,
while recommending herbs that look like
scales from an old dragon.
He always ends the session,
asking if I have any questions.
A million, all variations of
am I redeemable,
healable,
do you like me?
(the question I have been asking everyone,
my whole life).

But I answer,
No, I am good, thank you.