Anatomical Venus at the Gynecologist

Yesterday the doctor clipped
            a piece of tissue from my cervix.

I fainted, came to, dined
            on ice chips. Bled and bled.

Venus, not Earth, is another word
            for beauty.  The doctor dabs my wound

with the coagulation ointment that she said
            I wouldn’t need, probably.

I fear the things inside of me.
            Pain’s shadow writhes like a maggot.

“Men have no idea what we go through,”
            says the doctor, handing me water.

I hear the word mutated. Childless
            at 33, a heightened cancer risk,

my uterus lies fallow before an angry god.
            Like the wax woman I keep

my eyes shut, like her I swoon.
            Like her, I tear a fang from the moon.