Not Like in Diagrams

Don't share this with the rest of the class—
I woke up five minutes before my alarm,
envisioned the uterus—not like in books,
not like in diagrams with the ovaries raised
like victorious, celebrating arms, but how
it really is: tucked and balled in the guts,
like a scared child hiding in a closet.
Then a cat started chewing on my hair.

She doesn’t normally sleep with us, but
an X-ray showed a moth-eaten jaw—
bone infection or cancer, too much
for her little body to say for sure.
So we give her a strong antibiotic
while she fights us, then invite her
into the bedroom like a Make-A-Wish kid.

We lavish more on her because she might
be dying. Maybe that’s all any of us are—
curled into tight balls, denying ourselves
what we want until we’re lined up on death row,
finally requesting the last meal
we’ve been craving
most of our lives.