annual pelvic ultrasound
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.