Looking at spots

she leaned in close with her microscope,
peering intently at the geography of my arm,
its hills and valleys, the colors ranging
from white to deep brown, the furrows
and follicles, her brow knitted in
concentration gathering up her
observations into a pronouncement.
her eyes are the watery blue of old age,
her back slightly stooped from so many
years of leaning over arms and legs,
torsos and breasts, feet and fingers.
you need to see a specialist, she said,
handing me a bright blue referral sheet.
As I dressed, I creased it as many times
as to resemble the hills and valleys of my
forearm, it will unfold when the
sun is rising, bathing the mountains
in pink and orange.