"I Take Off My Shirt and She Giggles." by Joe Cottonwood

Trainee. Young woman—no, a girl in a lab coat.

Treadmill, a stress test. Nervously she says

Excuse me but I have to shave your chest hair

so the electrodes will stick. Behind her a nurse,

older, arms folded, watches scowling.

Trainee squirts Barbasol in white foamy circles,

then scratches with a BIC disposable razor, pink.

Leans in, brow furrowed, tip of tongue

at corner of mouth. Am I hurting you?

I assure her it’s fine, it feels like the belly

of a mouse running over my chest.

She pauses. Does that happen often? Mouse bellies?

Never, I say. Just imagining.

That’s a relief.

With every touch, I tingle, brushed by butterfly wings.

I feel her breath on my damp skin. I’d ask if I’m

her first chest but it seems too intimate a question

even as she circles the razor around my left nipple,

squinting. For the first time in my life

I wonder how my nipples compare to other men.

Skimming a damp towel she cleans

the remaining suds. A throat clears.

Trainee and I both raise our eyes

to the nurse who grins and says

Next time you’ll use the electric shaver

like the rest of us. Okay?

Trainee puts hands to mouth.

Then bursts into laughter.

She’s been hazed. And, by chance, I.

A doctor opens the door, says What am I missing?

Nurse says Nothing. I’ve got this.

Trainee presses electrodes to my hairless skin.

Adjusts a dial, flips a switch. Already she’s older.

Tells me to match the pace of the machine.

Joe Cottonwood repairs homes for money and writes poems for reasons he can’t explain. He lives under redwood trees in La Honda, California dodging wildfires and playing with grandchildren. Long ago he wrote an underground novel called Famous Potatoes. His most recent book of poetry is Random Saints.