The uterus. Glistening
under the fluorescent bulbs of the
operating room where
the surgeon with her rubber hands, lifted it
delicately
triumphantly
from the body cavity.
The uterus looked exactly like
a small Thanksgiving turkey, slippery
skin, goosebumps, tiny turkey legs
protruding politely—her
fibroids.
The next morning, I do not tell
the plump, cheerful woman
now uterus-free and eating
pudding,
that I thought
of raw poultry,
and of clucking
and feathers.