Part battle cry, part coming of age, Undoll explores the confines of “daughter,” “wife,” and “mother.”
2019 JULIE SUK AWARD
Best Book of Poetry Published by a Literary Press
2019 FLORIDA BOOK AWARD strong>
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 cold on 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
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
as we tear the cradle down.