After Pelvic Inflammatory Disease
Pat Benatar almost got it right — only –
my uterus is a battlefield. She is on the
prowl, moving in for the kill, screaming
like a banshee as she comes for the tender
organs, scraping them out with a dull spoon.
She reeks of week-old iron and relishes the
taste of clot-riddled blood relish. You never
see her coming, a blazing swirl of red so red
it soups black and brown, Las Vegas drowning
in molten lava — pavement, dirt, sand, red velvet
carpet, and neon light stew. Girl dinners and
smile at everyone, especially presumptuous
old men or else the pain gets worse. “Dip
my clit in buttermilk and put a cat underneath
it” — the inebriated driver of my pain-hazed
mind. Agony hunches over the girl, not the other
way around. I stab through my skin and tear it all
out — how about that? Dusty’s ready to fuckin’ go.
I’ll take a knife to it right now, with the same
precision as cutting fat off pork, which is to
say, very little. Meticulous as a maggot. The whole
thing will come out smooth in one piece. This
knife is glowing like a temptress in the night
and I am answering her call, slicing through the
silent skin like a banshee’s scream.