self swab

i land a man on the moon
& he knows nothing
about the body.
a leg up on the counter.
this is what i do 
to know where bees have hives.
where there is a game of chess.
i explain to my gynecologist 
"i have a history of assault"
which is what i say
to avoid the word "rape"
because there's no common exchange
where the word "rape" can live.
i think of it like a vulture.
the vulture herself has done
nothing wrong but she knows
what the world comes to.
flesh & guts & grit. cold instruments.
the promise of a result. knowing
one way you aren't dying
or one way you are. the brush
is plastic & strange. i cry & ask
for forgiveness. a small mirror.
you can do it. be a mother.
room after room. the clinic 
is called the "women's center."
sometimes i wonder if gender
is just a repository for different kinds
of pain. when i am done
i put the swab in a solution.
i leave it on the counter.
try to put myself back together.
the doctor says, "we will try this."
days later it works & i am alive
reading test results on my phone.
i am somehow alive & there is
a statue garden inside me
or else a burning rose bush.
one of the men who hurt me once said,
"i can tell you want more."
i feel like the world is always saying that.
my doctor says, "you can come back
next year." i sit in my car
in the parking lot & think of
dead goldfish floating 
to the surface of their bowls.