“I have been trying to figure out all the ways I can tell you.
It is how one day, you will worship a golden uterus.
This has nothing to do with my never going to Vermont with you.
This blood is all I have.
You will never know all the places it has been.
It holds itself up in mockery because it is always patient.
We are in a foggy place, foggy as-as.
I have graded my womb with an A.
It is the purple meat of something that stinks of a sock.
If I had gone with you, we might have slept for a while.
But I knew to resist, even while stammering I-I-I-I-I.
The starving trees will swallow up everything I have.
It doesn’t matter if I tiptoe with my feet slippered.
This is one of those dark places I was warned never to walk into.
Least of all, I should never go with you.
Then I bleed to mark the trail and an invisible man whispers, [My, my, my.]
There are different bloods; not all of them mean that I’m dead.
Most of them stand as the ampersand, the withering and.
They protect me from confusing the sleep state and the living.
The wind blows hard tonight and rattles my ovarian children.
I believe, I believe, I believe I will become orange now.
In that color, I will be hospitalized while you stand with the they.
Female circumcision made easy via IV bag and no one listens to the uterine want.
I am wet with the sickly sickly and I do not want to.
I do not want to feel that first between-the-legs cut.
I do not want my witness to be you.
Without my blessing, an egg will be cracked inside a sterile pan, then out.”
-Excerpt from SCT
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Today’s prompt involved being inspired by “The Golden Shovel” by Terrance Hayes. Hayes wrote his poem using every word in “We Real Cool” by Gwendolyn Brooks. By reading the last word of each line in his piece, you can read the entirety of the Brooks’ poem. So for my attempt, I used “Poem to My Uterus” by Lucille Clifton. Since I was focused on prose, a word from the poem is found at the end of each sentence. I only have part of the piece I wrote here but this section should read: “you uterus/ you have been patient/ as a sock/ while I have slippered into you/ my dead and living children/ now/ they want to cut you out.” I wrote the piece as a paragraph but broke it up here so that the poem-in-the-poem could be read more easily. It was an interesting experiment, one I’ve never tried before. And there’s a good chance that I might end up writing another piece like this. It’s a fun way to pay tribute to a poem you love.