Sonia Beauchamp

SCARRED CERVIX AS METAPHOR

After the calling of the clouds, the wind
is forgotten. The last breath

of Earth seeps through her sediment. Beyond
the confines of skin, all colors bleed

to ash. My chalk flesh picked apart
by stainless-steel talons. Without consent

conversations turn to violation. My scars
are not for speculation. Behind your speculum

my body cannot be softened by the tip of a tongue.
After the calling of the clouds, you forced

a recollection. Tender thighs open. Closed petals
scraped away. A jagged hole remains.