Embodiment

after Shira Erlichman

I learn that a body will unspool itself after I bleed
for a year straight. My uterus unzips

& unwinds until the dark between my legs melts
into a hole, one that I forget clawing

at my innards for. I leave my excess
on the surfaces he still dares

me to linger on: semen-scented sheets, tarnished
Costco underwear, his dick always

erect & missing somewhere inside me.
He explains that a body is what happens

when we learn self-indulgence. Everything
we crave from the world we instead do unto our flesh.

Yes, he insisted daily on the Nexplanon, the callous
sex, the non-bleeding vessel. But wasn’t it I who thrust

the metal rod inside my arm? Stupid body,
I say, counting deflated condoms in the trash.

Some days I plunge myself down
on the rod, as if I’ll irrevocably fracture.

At last, the hormones will flood
out of me, seeping from bones that refused

to hold them. Stupid, alien
body, I recite as he pounds

inside me. After he cums, the air reeking
of rust, I can finally bear to poke around

myself. Body, I whisper, just in case it’s not
true. I’m inhabiting you. But what am I

to do with us? If these bloodstains
are indeed breadcrumbs, where are you

taking me?

Christina Wang is a Chinese-American writer. Find her on Twitter @xtinawang_.