A poem about my body’s song
I am womb-less.
Stabbed by a knife wielding computer named Davinci.
Four dashes run across my belly like an equatorial line.
A boundary demarcating the femme of the north and the queer of the south.
I bleed no more,
but the vagina doth roar.
Last week, she thrummed like a percussive shiver in a hollow drum,
again and again this buzzing.
There was a full moon on the rise.
And the crest of womanhood seeping from my baby girl’s thighs.
My body still beats, still makes song
even with the cervix and uterus gone.