7
Sail
Meggie Royer
Years before I learned to open myself,
I spent two weeks in a whaling yard.
Ships lined up in tandem, their dark hulls
buried in sinks of salt.
They say the harpoon doesn’t hurt,
that it’s only a tug.
The bloodstream fights off the intruder
with the grace of a maestro
until a clot forms.
Pulsing ruby, it grows. Flattens.
Spreads.
With my back against the wall,
everything of his that shouldn’t have been
was inside me.