My uterus has been twisting herself sick all day,
the thrums and pulses from outside soak in
and she hums, tries to tell herself she’ll be fine, yes,
stroking her own roundness, peeling up one ovary
to calm the other: shhhhh, in three days you’ll be
armored, some small plastic thing inserted for the battle
so no wandering hand, no miserably signed paper
can get to you, little fibrous warrior. From outside,
I hold a trembling hand as she shutters and curls,
stick out my tongue to catch the light glinting
somewhere on the other end of four years.


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