Because I’m bleeding, the intern asks:
When was your last period?
Date it from the first time
you prayed to the last time you meant it.
Answer as only I can: You won’t
understand, but I was a woman
when I woke and it was right. Imagine
me, real and red in a way no man can
take from me. The speculum in his hands,
against my vulva, my scarred
pelvis, translating. Ask, What do you
see? and hear water
churning in the absence, the spur
of forced mountain, of tissue beneath
my gut. His cold hands, unbeliever
of the cicatrix where I was
sewn together. Nothing, he says,
and blushes. Nothing natural.
The exhale of metal and fingers