"You're love birds, I can tell" she said
as we hobbled slowly on the sidewalk
twenty minutes after tiny specs of my cervix
were divorced from me by the speculum-looking-scissors
that had been resting on the table next to the
other sterile tools: big swabs, littler swabs, iodine bottles full
of iodine, acedic acid, the actual speculum, and of course
the blue dressing covering the cold metallic tray table without
which none of these objects would be propped.
(These objects are enough, by themselves, to give you a heart attack
before the doctor even asks you to "scoot down.")
"I can tell by the way you walk" she said
completely oblivious to the residue of pain
living between my thighs that slowed my pace down at least
forty percent and had me grabbing Wade's arm
for stability all the way to the bank, to the parking garage,
to the car, oblivious to how long I had been "open" at someone
elses command, subsequently stretched, raw, exposed, in pain
and "closed again" with no one to scream at because this is all
done in the name of Health Care.
"Yeah we are" i answered her
laughing at how things can be true and not true at the same time
because though he's gay and I am Lincoln's
a love so complimentary, enduring, and free-flying
certainly deserved her analogy of birds.
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