The Funeral
by Lilianna Cullen
The woman in the gloves jabs me one last
time and it feels eerily reminiscent
of you—
jarring, sheer, unforgiving.
Just like you—invasive.
The pain mirrors your wandering hands,
your sharp presence that only knew how to bite
to be felt. The woman meant no harm, but I felt you
suddenly in her place, in that same place
you ate away at for sport, a pissing ground
for you to fester and grow.
I was reminded that my body had become a graveyard.
She peered inside, opening me with the ice-cold
speculum. I expected her to note that we needed
to remove more of you, to put the vacuum
of death inside me again to make myself clean.
I instinctively wanted to clamp closed—
not wanting any remaining part of you to see
the light of day. You hid behind my tightening, dysfunctional muscles, lurking within that dark cavern that hid you—my lingering shame.
She poked around in that place— comfortably, intentionally.
She knew the shame coiled itself
to rest here in the dark where I, too, had been banished.
The woman looked at me, smiling—
It’s all gone.
Nothing? I asked, skeptical.
Nothing.