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

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
as we tear the cradle down.