Incompetent Cervix

The name sounds hopelessly Victorian—
I’d heard the term and thought of dressing gowns,
ruffled and prim, or suitors waving salts
around a lady on a fainting couch,
not this theater, with its cold table,
its pulleys and knives, not this race to sew
me shut before I spill. Not me. Not then.
But in my present tense, invalid, unstable,
incompetent, I catalog my faults
and hopes. I’m but a flimsy, bulging pouch.
Where is the I I was a day ago?
Behind the drape, the surgeon tugs and frowns
until I’m corseted. Knotted and braced,
I’m to be sent home to bed, chastened and chaste.

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Chelsea Rathburn

Chelsea Rathburn’s third poetry collection, Still Life with Mother and Knife, is forthcoming from LSU Press in early 2019. A native of Miami, Fla., she now lives in the mountains of North Georgia, where she directs the creative writing program at Young Harris College.

Also by Chelsea Rathburn (see all)

• Chemistry Lessons - March 4, 2018
• Incompetent Cervix - March 4, 2018
• Lay Figures - March 4, 2018

Author: Chelsea Rathburn

Chelsea Rathburn’s third poetry collection, Still Life with Mother and Knife, is forthcoming from LSU Press in early 2019. A native of Miami, Fla., she now lives in the mountains of North Georgia, where she directs the creative writing program at Young Harris College. View all posts by Chelsea Rathburn