The surgeon hands me a mirror.
He says take a journey with me.
He asks me to list what parts
of me I’d change. Instead, I see
a multiplication table written in
the most illegible black metal font
possible. John is streetside, fiddling
with the stereo. The city can’t
stop its manic twirling. Every
window bats an eyelash. The surgeon
says lift your blouse. My belly
is tiny. We search for fat for him
to graft. John’s tastes have gotten
harsher. Some days I only eat the sun.