Drunken birds

whistle in my belly
beneath the thin sheet, and
the square of tropical sky shifts
like an eye, opening—the flicker

of gloved fingers inside me.

It’s cold on the exam table, arms curled,
the strange familiarity of stirrups.

Doctor asks nicely
if I can explain my history:
Well, nothing fits–tampons only recently.
A quiet smile back. It is, actually, funny.

Involuntary, my clench down,
my push out. Black window of me
narrowing.

Bear down.

The white ceiling of your bedroom
as your mouth twists me into other shapes.

Doctor says good:
the blood flow can help.
She presents a set of stiff pink
plastic cones to take on dates.

The birds in my belly love me.
I picture myself as a vase
filled with soft petals
shed from houseplants.

In the waiting room
I play Snake, game
after game. I won,
I whisper I’m done.

Erika Nestor received her MFA in poetry from the Helen Zell Writers’ Program at the University of Michigan - Ann Arbor, where she is now a Zell Postgraduate Fellow. Her work has appeared in LEVELER. She enjoys taking pictures of the sky.