Archive | February, 2012

In Celebration of My Uterus

28 Feb

I dropped a friend off at the airport today. I waited in the car in the little roundabout drop off area to make sure my friend did indeed make it onto the airplane with their borderline 50lb bag. Before the drop-off we’d had brunch and browsed a local used bookshop (med school. so hard, folks. amiright?) I picked up a book of poems by Anne Sexton. Always loved this gal and someone had posted her poem For Eleanor Boylan Talking with God on facebook the other day so she was on my mind. So, I was waiting in the roundabout (good thing I did too, he came back out twice), in my sunny car, flipping through my new book, and this poem caught my eye. I thought I’d use it to jump start the ol’ blog again. I’ve missed writing.

So, with Anne Sexton, I welcome myself back to bloglandia. Now, to be clear, I don’t have a uterus anymore, but I think about the old gal from time to time, and miss her.  This poem speaks to me in different ways than it would have two years ago.  I hear very different things in it. But I like it.

In Celebration of My Uterus

Everyone in me is a bird.

I am beating all my wings.

They wanted to cut you out

but they will not.

They said you were immeasurable empty

but you are not.

They said you were sick unto dying

but they were wrong.

You are singing like a school girl.

You are not torn.

Sweet weight,

in celebration of the woman I am

and of the soul of the woman I am

and of the central creature and its delight

I sing for you. I dare to live.

Hello, spirit. Hello, cup.

Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain.

Hello to the soil of the field.

Welcome, roots.

Each cell has a life.

There is enough here to please a nation.

It is enough that the populace own these goods.

Any person, any commonwealth would say of it,

“It is good this year that we may plant again

and think forward to a harvest.

A blight had been forecast and has been cast out.”

Many woman are singing together of this:

one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine,

one is at the aquarium tending a seal,

one is dull at the wheel of her Ford,

one is at the toll gate collecting,

one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona,

one is straddling a cell in Russia,

one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt,

one is painting her bedroom walls moon color,

one is dying but remembering a breakfast,

one is stretching on her mat in Thailand,

one is wiping the ass of her child,

one is staring out the window of a train

in the middle of Wyoming and one is

anywhere and some and everywhere and all

seem to be singing, although some can not

sing a note.

Sweet weight,

in celebration of the woman I am

let me carry a ten-foot scarf,

let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds,

let me carry bowls for the offering

(if that is my part).

Let me study the cardiovascular tissue,

let me examine the angular distance of meteors,

let me suck on the stems of flowers

(if that is my part).

Let me make certain tribal figures

(if that is my part).

For this thing the body needs

let me sing

for the supper,

for the kissing,

for the correct


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