a poem about the emotional trauma of hysterectomy
https://unsplash.com/photos/nwWUBsW6ud4
in time, eggs drop
as they may
a crimson furnace burns
waits for them
then rejects even
the idea of babies
babies that refuse to be bound
and tear their way out
leaving you
to your stitches
these eggs, they stay now…
where are they to go?
a furnace burnt out
removed scoop by scoop
fleshy tumors in a pan
I am not ashamed that
I screamed at God.
who would now mourn
these tiny keepers of
life? I must say I,
and I alone.
no more fat and bald
purple-plump and wet
wan cries erupting
gurgle and shriek
announce,
I am alive
I am alive
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