Two Pieces

it slides from you like jelly, a mass of tissue & cells. that
was you. is you. is still once outside your body.

you want to burn it, freeze it, pickle it to offer scotus or
those named man. maybe, like the wise king, you split &
send to both: one the opening, the other a holding, but fruit
of the same tree. virility a virus.

maybe itll keep in a jar on your shelf. a home to display the
unself where people must see—

that you will not die in birth.

that you will not be fed for a womb.

that you are a secret third thing, the textural translation of
line, conjured. membrane served to dish & spread you
pathological.

if left inside, you wouldnt rot. the you that was is not a
dead thing. no, too much living might spill, spread further
than can be called normal. a womans toomuchness you
long tried to starve out.

the fear is—sorry, whose fear. what anxiety whiteness is.

the speculum holds open as you are scraped in the soft
fleshyflesh. muchhandled things are always tender.

now a hole where there was not. not whole
but…..something. you can feel this. the absence. what cant
be intelligible but is cherryslick inside. something to crack
teeth on.

you shake—the tremors of a nervous womb in a body
meant to mourn. you have never felt as female as when
something was taken away—a half truth.

neither woman nor nonbinary enough, but used to
accusations of too much. maybe you leak & muddy the
waters. seed worldmaking.

but you dont get to decide how it ends—with you on your
back. the body is all, this beginning, & you become we.