» Poetry

Sonnet for trigger → obsessional doubt → consequence

Erica Dawson

The surgeon left my ovaries intact.

And, once a month, they still release an egg

which slowly rots beside my spine, in back,

my spleen, in front, between my ribs. I beg

you, menopause, come sooner than later.

Filled with half-lives, degrading, in my hollows,

I know mother nature always caters

to men, their bodies stronger, so it follows

I should break down. But what if each egg was a spore

that could give rise to something new without

a man. Maybe just a tiny core

of a human. Some fifty guts to stomach the doubt

of whether or not my body is blameless,

if it’s awful to survive being buried in darkness.