In mere moments,
it seems, I will be
wrapped under stale
hospital sheets;
throat scratching from
a breathing tube,
a hollow body where
organs have been
sawed away.

I still love the womb
that only cultivates
funerals, would keep
it forever inside
if it had allowed.

I think of the cyclical
nature of hope—
how those who cradle
around pretend to
not notice the quiet
decay of one’s body,
promising me
there’s still semblance
of a woman residing
here.

-Kathryn Paige // The Hysterectomy