Two weeks to my hysterectomy
is an event horizon.
Fourteen days to ending thirty-four
years of fertility, that weren’t, well…. fertile.
Fourteen days to ending blood-slick,
stomach-sick, knife-twist that was mostly
close to ending on its own, or so
my soul says. Fourteen
to losing fist-sized ovaries,
occupying so much room hunger
is a faded memory.
Fourteen days,
and the thought I woke with this morning
was, “what if I wake up screaming
           that I killed it?”