Asking for Birth Control
Lying naked you spread yourself
as wide as the room. The paper
crinkles as you slide your body
down the bed until hung over,
do you feel any pain?
She is not the first woman to speak
inside you, to ask about partners and fall
silent by the answer.
Outside, the leaves scrape
the ground near the pharmacy.
Outside, the trees kick
their limbs towards the sky too.
Eye contact keeps you present.
No, you don’t self-examine.
No, you don’t smoke.
No, you’re not sure why
you’ve gained so much weight
since the last time she saw you
naked, only that the fall is a time
for lattes and feasts and sex with the lights
off, only that you will try
to take the stairs. a little more
and you spread wide enough to birth
the doctor, or the whole damn building.
Imagine the speculum contains
the ridges of a fresh cucumber–the prick
of your skin as it’s picked.
How familiar you’ve become
as landscape, your torso a gourd,
deseeded and cut and left in the yard
for months. You will be brown, dried,
not rotten but not alive.
At some point the talking will stop.
She will remove her gloves and palm
your breasts. You’ll wish you were barren,
were a man, were winter.
as wide as the room. The paper
crinkles as you slide your body
down the bed until hung over,
do you feel any pain?
She is not the first woman to speak
inside you, to ask about partners and fall
silent by the answer.
Outside, the leaves scrape
the ground near the pharmacy.
Outside, the trees kick
their limbs towards the sky too.
Eye contact keeps you present.
No, you don’t self-examine.
No, you don’t smoke.
No, you’re not sure why
you’ve gained so much weight
since the last time she saw you
naked, only that the fall is a time
for lattes and feasts and sex with the lights
off, only that you will try
to take the stairs. a little more
and you spread wide enough to birth
the doctor, or the whole damn building.
Imagine the speculum contains
the ridges of a fresh cucumber–the prick
of your skin as it’s picked.
How familiar you’ve become
as landscape, your torso a gourd,
deseeded and cut and left in the yard
for months. You will be brown, dried,
not rotten but not alive.
At some point the talking will stop.
She will remove her gloves and palm
your breasts. You’ll wish you were barren,
were a man, were winter.
Sherrel McLafferty is a multi-genre writer who resides in Bowling Green, Ohio. She was a finalist for Storm Cellar's Flash Majeure contest and longlisted on SmokeLong's Grand Micro Contest. Her poetry has been or will be featured in places such as Notre Dame Review, Juked, Sundog Lit, Salamander, Zone 3, and more.
Art: Public Domain