Iraq Vag Panic

You could say it wrong, like my wracked

brain, or with the wrong g

like gag or Garamond.

Some words are nearly in ruins.

Yesterday the gynecologist told me

I spell my name wrong—should have an o between the f and u.

Am I trying to get pregnant?

In my country, he begins.

And then, between my parted legs, tells me that over there

they do everything that we do,

just behind closed doors.

Am I anxious?

Well, someone is tweeting at me from a burner account,

or my step-grandma’s trying to troll me again.

But I’ve already gone quick-violet.

On the plane, beside me

is a healer who tells me about her interest

in belly dancing.

Belly good is what my grandpa says instead of very.

Not his accent, just a joke.

We approach the fertile crescent:

Hewlêr, Kirkuk, Baghdad—three neon shocks.

Across the aisle a woman opens up

a document that just says ART.

Then selects the text in baby blue

and makes it shrink.

Timing, says the healer. Such a powerful force in life.