lisa desiro

 

annual pelvic ultrasound

Ashe.jpg

Usually in the waiting room there’s at least one

woman with a baby-bulge and a man.

I assume those lucky ladies get the same squirt of gel,

the same sensor sliding over their bellies.

But do they, too, have to endure the magic wand

inserted like a dildo with a camera on its tip?

 

Each time, I’m asked for confirmation:

You’re here because of ?

I answer the same: family history,

my mother… cancer…

 

In the monitor’s murky half-circle,

under some numbers under my name,

shadowy amoeba shapes. Such lovely

hidden lady-parts. The camera swivels.

The cross-hatch cursor is positioned at perimeters.

Point & click. I’ve gotten better at it,

 

returning the radiologist’s smile when he declares:

Your ovaries look beautiful.

I might even laugh if he made a joke:

Your pelvis is ultra-sound!

 

But he or the nurse or those expectant couples might be

horrified if I told them that

the reddish-brown liquid

vomited into a pink plastic basin repeatedly

by the person who gave birth to me

resembled menstrual fluid.