Anna Wilkes, Complete Hysterectomy

her seat tipped back,                       my mother
grips her female urinal                    plastic and indiscreet
like a sacred fetish–                        her womb now null
ified beneath her                              short skirt, she
finds moments                                  between the semi trucks
passing in which to                           lift the fabric and
piss — fuck it, I don’t                       care who sees
anymore.  My father                       looks ahead and
listens to the splashing.                   Her surgery scar
marks the ending of                         my beginning.  Her
cleft belly grins                                 at the removal of
what once was my                            swaddling cloth.
No blood to stain                               her months anymore,
no life humming in                            what is now a chasm.
But I – I am in the back                   seat, pelvis thrumming
for the first time.  Her                     womanhood diffuses
into mine –  she fallows                    and I flourish.  She
empties her insides                          and I scoop them up.