The nurse with clay hands
slashes the undergarments,
peels back the skin,

all those secrets we thought
sacrosanct – atrium, aorta –
laid open for inspection.

I couldn’t bear it, she said,
knowing someone had his fingers
inside my heart.

All those little lies
that fib us into living,
that sometimes arrested

still needle us on,
the sutures on which
our tyranny depends.