6/24/22
you have never sat in the
coldness of the waiting room
filled with mothers twice your age,
holding the hand of your own mother,
sweating in shame and swatting away
buzzing judgment simply because
your options were to terminate
or to die and you chose not
to die just yet, i know that—
your strut into that waiting
room would be shooed and
shunned, denied any moment
to speak, as if you're
anyone who doesn't seem
masculine enough
to hold heavy truth
in your courtroom.
we learn young that
wrinkly men pull
apart like dough under
long nails after long waits.
you have felt the emptiness in
your chest for so long
you've lost your chance
to know what it's like to feel that
organ drop, to swallow it over
and over again and hope
that your body attacks itself, to
hope that nobody can see
through your doctors note, to
hope that the blood will stop
dripping soon.
you have never hidden in your clothes
or lied to save yourself, unless of course
you turned your secretary into
a womb, and pulled your strings
for a quick disposal. you have
never questioned the prison
of domesticity; you have never
questioned the prisons.
is it nice to perch up high, untouched?
when you spit do you watch it land in
a pedestrian's eye, or just assume
she'll know where to step? every womb
a vacation you
can't wait to take,
despite what the locals say—
(they beg you to remain absent
while you drink their
water and name them lesser).
are you ever embarrassed? at
how much you think about our bodies
and how little we think about yours?