My Gynecologist has a Plastic Model of a Female Reproductive System

Celeste Rose Wood
Featured image: If this is not a song © Seigar 2019


She says, please remove
your clothes and put this gown on

with the opening to the front.
I always leave my socks on.

The inside of the uterus
is displayed in coronal plane,

a dissected mailbox. I slow time
down by barely opening

my mouth, just enough to fix
the humming of fluorescent light

to my tongue, then I also hum
and the anatomical model

swells up bright. The vagina
is the threaded neck of a pressed

glass bottle, a vortex of fog
and breath. In the cupped tongue

of the waterspout, a uterus
floats, space shuttle pod in free

fall, horse-head nebula as
Vitruvian Man, cochlear snail

with galactic spiral arms
for eyestalks. Encased

in ice, a crane takes flight,
a yogi does a handstand,

his pose called antique ear
trumpet, the sound of ink-

blots hushing as they fractalize.
Are you ready,

she asks and I scoot
down toward the stirrups.