A Salute to my Uterus and Blackwomanhood
Like everything else
non-white and woman
the doctor said, it should go.
I mourned the thought,
then fought like hell
to keep you. I see
and salute you who
exists in darkness
unrecognized, toiling
without rest. Sleek
and curved as a scythe,
you quietly house
the blood, then shed
your body every month.
You mythmaker, you dragon
slayer, you the fiercest ninja
in the room. You so bad,
not even this operating table
could take you away from me.
The Perfect Sign, or Too Much Wine, Not Enough Gratin
~ dedicated to my now hubs
Honestly, I was nervous because we never had our tarot cards read together
or our palms lines read by some woman covered in turquoise,
but the symbols we did have were nebulous. Co-habitation felt
like a boxing match—we each bit down hard on our mouth guards,
laced up our boots and got ready to spar. You loved the silverware ends up,
the forks and knives threatening to send my delicate hands to the ER.
I preferred them down just like I did the toilet tissue roll. Am I the only one
who thinks the squares should be pulled down when you’re perched
on the commode? Anyways, you enjoy the apartment blinds pulled up,
obviously adore the neighbors getting a full view of our naked bodies
during lovemaking. And I love the slats closed, so no one can spot
my mis-matched panties and bra as I race for my cup of morning joe.
But this holiday we promised, would be perfect. We’d already
drank one bottle of Pinot, a celebratory toast for ducking our families
and staying home solo to cook. And I assumed the smashed grapes
rolling around in our blood would help you cut the potatoes, drown them in
olive oil and spices, and bake them to a brown better than a Kardashian’s next
tanning session. As for my own dinner contribution, it was already done:
stuffed salmon, steaming and arranged on the plate polite as a child
sitting on a church pew. After the spuds were dressed and baking,
we opened the second bottle. A corner-store Merlot inspired some kissing,
caressing of thighs and navels as sweaters and corduroys fell to the floor.
And just before we got to what my auntie calls “the meat of the sandwich,”
we heard a pop, then an explosion, or maybe a collision of sorts. Glass smashing
into metal and the slow hissss of oil burning. And no, we never flipped
The Lovers card or intercepted a Hail Mary in the 4th quarter,
but our first Turkey day was a delightful disaster. A wonderful failure.
And as we stood, half-dressed in front of the oven door, the cookware severed
into pieces, the remnants of our gratin sliding down the oven wall,
we took this as omen. Maybe these greasy potatoes infused with glass
were the cowrie shells. Maybe this was all we needed.
Poet and journalist celeste doaks is the author of Cornrows and Cornfields, and editor of the poetry anthology Not Without Our Laughter. Her chapbook, American Herstory is the first-prize winner in Backbone Press’s 2018 chapbook contest and contains poems about Michelle Obama. Her poems have been published in multiple on-line and print publications such as The Rumpus, Chicago Quarterly Review, Asheville Poetry Review, Bayou Magazine and most recently in Gargolye Magazine. Currently, she is the 2017-2020 Visiting Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at University of Delaware.