Oceanic Consanguinity

…blood is memory without language.

~Joyce Carol Oates

fingers clutch my womb, home of the orange chakra,
as thick tunnels of pain bore through muscle and bone
searching for a place to lay roots and fester
blistering into bloody wounds that ask for cotton dressings

I could curl upon my body
in the comfort of my own bed, unaccompanied
save for my teddy bear, a boy who has seen
more blood than a surgeon pour from my skin

I await this pain, expect its arrival
near the eve of the full moon
when I cannot make love to the one womyn
who holds me in her gaze each night
watching as I shudder and fight against
fingers probing my lips, my spine
my cervix

this time the fingers are not real,
only memories that imbed themselves in my uterus
surfacing when the moon pulls my blood like ocean water

when the tides recede
the contents once hidden are splayed upon the sand
for creeping eyes to gawk and wonder
much the same as I, left stripped of my inside
am put on display