Colonoscopy

It is raining. The gardener
pulls weeds from the grass.
I watch him from behind the glass.

This morning I lay on a gurney counting
the letters of an unfamiliar Swedish word
illuminated above me in fluorescence.

No one said this would be pleasant.
In America I hear you get sedated for this, the doctor says.
He is cheerful. He wants to tell me about his time in L. A.
The nurse asks if I want local anesthesia, which means a needle
inserted where I don’t really want anything inserted, so—

No. I’ve had two children. This is not worse. This is not better.

This is me holding the hand of a Finnish nurse while a man named Urban
puts first his finger up my anus and then says, Now the camera. It hurts

only on the twists and turns. The question mark of your abdomen,
the nurse smiles. She is so kind, my husband says before leaving.

And later, I knew I was leaving you in good hands.

I’ve been thinking of having an affair,
to be in my body again.

In the car on the way home, my husband says,
I had one, you know.
When? 
A few years ago, before the children. 
Why didn’t you tell me?
He looks at me, I could be on fire 
and you would still be asking, 
‘Why don’t you ask about my day?’

I don’t say anything. But what I want to say 
is, Ask me, ask me about my day.