Batnadiv HaKarmi
Lockdown Ultrasound
The door is closed
tape and table bar the hallway—
behind a plastic-ribboned chair and desk
the masked secretary sends me back
to sign that I’ve had no contact
with anyone feverish. Empty
waiting room of closed doors.
Mind closed. Voice closed. I have nothing
to say and I am not saying it.
The doctor’s eyes peep blue
over the blank expanse of mask. I clamor alone
onto the cold rustling paper.
Cold cream. You appear on the screen
eyelids sunken, like the globes
of your eyes haven’t rounded yet—
planets not yet accreted.
Lips fully formed.
“See the face?” he asks.
“Five fingers, baruch Hashem. Kidneys,
baruch Hashem. Spine, baruch Hashem.”
He doesn’t point to the ovaries, already in place.
Eggs multiplying, in preparation for death.
—Submitted on 06/01/2020
Batnadiv HaKarmi‘s poems have appeared in Poet Lore, Poetry International, Fragmented Voices, Biscuit Root Drive, Ilanot Review, and other journals. American born, she lives in Jerusalem. Online at batnadiv.com.
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