When my mother says the word "cervix"
over dinner, nobody blinks; it belongs
between us. How was your day?
Pass the salad.
I always picture
the fleshy tubes of squid bodies
that she dissects on the counter
slicing away entrails, chopping
at tentacles, foreign
deep sea creatures, peeling
layers back like a thick pink onion
a maze, wrapping around
and around, spiraling up
to some great space of womb
sounding empty and full, a lobby,
a bed with peaked sheets, a stadium.
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