3 Centimeters

Lying on fragile paper like tissue tucked inside a birthday bag,

I spread my legs for the nurse as she smeared lubricant on an

ultrasound machine. You’ll feel a cooling sensation, some discomfort,

but it won’t hurt.

​

3 centimeters ruptured inside my womb, white blood cells rushed to flush

crimson and puss as I crouched in agony in the waiting room, breaking into

a cold sweat while eyeing the machines through etched gingham in glass,

wondering which one they’d use.

​

Ovarian cyst, she says, scrubbing the telescope that’d been barged inside

my walls, capturing monochrome images of the orb, 3 centimeters on display,

illuminated as if it were a crater, pale, and hardly hidden by fog, foam.

Rest for a few days, it’ll go away on its own. I’ve had one before,

they’re not so bad.

​

I rose to dress in a fluorescent bathroom, wiping lubricant from

my thighs with paper towels before returning to an empty waiting room,

empty car seat, my reward for being good not ribbon candy or sticker sheets,

but an empty carcass to decompose, and a bottle of Advil shoved into my purse.

It’s not so bad.

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