April 14, 2022
Oblation
by Tanya Grae
My gynecologist asks if others may watch
& I consent, already numb, why not?
There should be an audience for this end.
An antiphon could be written in the hum
of machinery & whirr. My feet in cold metal
stirrups, my legs bent high in a squat,
I tune the sterile out. After today, I won’t
have a period, that punctuation I prayed for
at times will disappear. He tells me I will feel
some pressure, a little pinch, then dilate wide:
my cervix, my eyes. A laparoscopic camera
enters my universe, reveals on the monitor
a contrast to anatomy diagrams
of an inflamed red trumpet: a loft aglow—
carnations, white feathers, heaven inside of me.
The whole room presses close to the screen,
& I turn my head away to mourn this
Holy, before we tear the cradle down.