Venus Hottentot in a convex mirror
an interior coagulation of disembodiment.
They say that men are more visual & it
is true I can’t see myself from behind.
Can’t curate the archives of these cave walls
paintings drawn with moist fingers and firm hands.
Today a man in a white coat told me
about my insides, read me my body aloud:
Is you is or is you ain’t
my uterus in translation.
The language of anatomy
inextricably linked to word choice.
The autopsy made me aware of the
legless beast wriggling beneath my skin.
Violent sounds of silent gargling, the
hot throb of a breath pulsing the cold air.
You—the fox and the hound, the hunter
pulling the trigger with his tongue.
Wet and bloody at the opening
silver claws and cotton teeth.
Pink goose bumps waddling the lips
a small vice peculiar and wild.
Part my fur to the side
Spirit says I am wolf.
Spirit tells me my blouse is damp with milk
the white mystery of doubt now leaking.
I give you permission to enter—
the opulence of this rabbit hole.
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