Does she bleed anymore?
I’ll have to look it up.
I keep thinking about the plastic diagram
of a woman’s anatomy in the science classroom,
the great hollowed bean where
the bloomed iris of reproduction sits.
In a dream, a careless knock sends it
to scatter on the floor, ovaries rolling
under desks to collect dust.
Life continues.
I’m aware of how full a body feels.
I run thoughts of touch, of climax, and my pelvis swells.
I run the pavements and my pelvis thuds.
I can’t imagine such emptiness.
They scraped her out.
A radical hysterectomy.
A restructured vagina.
Rounds of radiation.
I thought of her the other day
as I did the dishes, scouring
the frying pan with steel wool.
I cried so hard I filled the sink.
The drain was slow to empty.
It held everything.
I hated its ability.
Malpractice shouldn’t
roll off the tongue like it does.
It should require spit, a throaty cough,
a sharp taste.
We are not martyrs, we are matrons.
Please look to our bodies with blades
of scrutiny, waves of patience.
Please believe us when we say “it hurts here.”
(2021)
