To Have a Dot

If you folded it like an origami

crane or embroidered handkerchief,

it would fit almost completely in a walnut.

That’s what the gynecologist tells me.

And that mine is pretty.

Almost a girl’s: that’s what he means.

Women with children have a dash

on the cervix.

Women without children, we have a dot.

We use Morse code

to talk about the dilemma,

attaching each letter to a word:

Sierra-India-Sierra-Tango-Echo-Romeo.

Legs spread. Fake smile

in this concrete hospital

of a world that is infinite

and nevertheless stretches on.

Where is its belly button?

When I return, and I’ll do so singing,

I won’t throw in your face the dust we bit.

I won’t throw you the map of a wasted land.

I’m going to throw you a walnut.