…let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves.
Lucille Clifton
Not by force.
A legitimate violation.
Oh, honey. Papers were signed.
Questions were traded.
(Him: May I approach you?
Me: How much can you save?)
Blood occupied,
layers of fat and muscle cut
through by his kind—
how to take a man to that place?
No matter how fabulous
the insurance,
there never can be trust.
Try lying there, drugged up,
the theatrical scene of counting
back from one hundred.
Hoping to be that flawed
animal surviving
a night in darkness.
Waking up with staples
barely holding in the guts,
leading down a now-flat road.
When they slice the belly
open like that, they discard
half of a woman and leave
her the ovaries,
perhaps
bits of the womb,
the consolatory scar:
the understanding lady
in the group
who’d closed her soft
surgeon’s hand over the one
reached out to her.
Don’t worry, girl.
You’ll still get plenty wet.
