I worried because my body 
is a more complex text.
When he feels the shape 
of my uterus, he may not 
think pear-shaped yet 
an apricot in size, hollow 
butternut squash, lightbulb.
He may not consider it a bowl 
for a daughter developing inside 
with eggs for her daughters, 
a set like Grandma’s Tupperware 
poised to seal away meals, 
or nested like Russian dolls, 
copies waiting to be twisted off, 
revealed. My doctor speaks 
the body’s language: uterus 
tilted toward spine could 
mean incarceration—womb 
snagged on the pelvic bone.
Almond-shaped ovaries pocked 
like plum pits—if swollen 
with movable lumps— 
could be dermoid, endometrioma, 
or chocolate cysts. Or nothing 
to worry about. He questions
structure, unpuzzles chromosomes, 
scrutinizes tensions between 
biopsies and blood work, and reads 
all this alongside testimony 
and history because my flesh, 
like a poem, carries mystery: 
it produced one child complete
But jettisoned the next four.
My doctor’s glossing of my uterine
purse—whether it will fill and stay full
or remain empty—eludes his science.
But when I build a nest of words,
paradox and ambiguity kiss each time,
offspring running down the page.