(Or Cleaning out My Pocketbook)

 

Five more hours with my uterus 

tucked inside me like a coin pouch,

calcified stones rattling like spare change, 

making their presence known.

 

For nearly 58 years she’s been with me, 

snug above her pelvic foundation,

inside alabaster birthing-hip walls,

and a flying buttress of ribs,

my pear-shaped cathedral, 

host of clutch and caul,

of four miracles total —

once (deep in her aged patina splendor and

a glorious display of gothic revival)

even two at a time.

Yes, she’s always been there.

 

And now, just five more hours 

with my clutch built for precious cargo.

(Well, more like four-and-a-half now.)

She’s been a dedicated little pocketbook,

sloughing and sluicing, building and producing

and though she’s more paunch than pouch these days,

more crumbled cabin than cathedral,

she’s a part of me —

and bruised and battered,

torn and tattered though she is —

I will miss her.