Daniela Buccilli


Perhaps my uterus had had enough of desire,
wised up. Swollen, the eyes of a jilted lover

after crying, realizing the end would be
the same as the beginning. Unrequited.

The uterus is a kind of purse, the doctor said,
that carried eggs some thirty years.

Some fertilized, mostly single-celled,
looking for the exit. Darwinian hope beads.

I like pockets—except at weddings,

where I feed the compulsion
for a sack aflame in sequins.

Abandon them under curtained table rounds,
beside wet umbrellas in lobbies,

on the host’s guest bed smothered by the coats.
Nothing lost but funeral cards and lipstick.

I have not loved adequately the beauty of pocketbooks.

My doctor sized it up with her hands,
As big as if it held a 15-week fetus.

We like to measure things in fetuses.
It is helpful.

What was it that I wanted from children?
I do not remember.

The ribbon incision, asymmetrical,
a grin below the waistband, scar.

The soft mid-section drapes like thick sheets
of dough over a taut wire. The bold line

at the bottom of an accountant’s total.

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