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An Anthology of Poetry and Medicine Main Menu Foreword Introduction At the Teaching Hospital by Dan Kraines Atrophy by Paul Blom Barnacled to the Bone by Stephen C. Middleton Biopsy by Julie Rosenzweig Blood Truck by Sophie Summertown Grimes Choke by Alyson Miller Dead See Scroll by Rich Murphy Deciding Not to Wear Glasses by Donna J. Gelagotis Lee Discovery: Negative Return by Tara Skurtu Exile by Lane Falcon Flush by Stephen Mead Fruit By Tyler Chadwick Grandmother Dead, Then Alive, Then Dead Again by Matthew Baker Hysteria by Donna J. Gelagotis Lee If Not Absolution by Matthew Baker Lack by Sarah Anderson Wood Mirena by Meagan Grant Moon Child by Lisa Hiton pecan, rodef, clam by Susan Comninos Refugees by Walt Peterson She Cannot Let Him Go by Nancy Smiler Levinson Some Days Begin Like This by Tara Skurtu The Mechanics of Love by Victoria Gatehouse The Needle by Isla McKetta There Was Beauty in That Graph by Geralyn Pinto [Untitled] by Nan Darbous Marthaller [Untitled] by Nan Darbous Marthaller Contributors

Mittelschmerz

18022
by Sarah Kersey



Something in her womb leaps
in expectation of a suitor;
a dismembered limb being
fitted for a prosthesis;
smoldering for synergy.
 
Patient pucker
blowing bubble gum, not exactly
pretty, but playful.
Her lips drip preparing
for his kiss.
 
Hips bolden burden and
risk.  Geometric
proof---triangulating eyes
for a could-be lover.
Beckoning in earnest in hazy heat
to lie like Nile reeds concealing their infant
precious and forbidden, to lie
 
like sweat coordinating pleasure points on
intersecting axes framed as
infinity sharing one sheet,
crisply creased
into kissing coronals.
 
His hypotenuse opposite her right angle
un-redacting her most private parts:
misspelling her words in intimate whispers.
Her temperature will not abate
until his seed swims upstream.  But,
 
the nape of her neck remains un-kissed
this period.  The guest did not arrive this time.
She is vengeful when love
doesn’t
take.
Patent pucker spitting
in contempt, stripping garments off
a fleeing man, shedding linens,
laying bare the fault, but no one is to blame.
Some things just happen this way:
impotently and intolerably.




first published in Neologism Poetry Journal

 

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