3rd Vaginal Ultrasound
cold plastic kisses the bottom of my feet.
stare up at speckled ceilings—
Bok globule right before star formation,
gray and silicate dust
captured in light
by hand of nurse
who occasionally presses on belly,
who reaches up and finds innards constellations not
does it mean more clarity or more platitudes?
low lights paired against twinkling blue hue
of computers screens acts as guiding shine.
take the white cloth and smear lube against thighs.
dancing red and blue dots play behind
closed eye lids—a scattering in the microcosm
of my womb.
guess how many times the blue gown can wrap around your torso / if you guess two / add one more / it billows from the back / and side as you press your skin into cold white paper / you know it’s going to nick your skin / all point and even if hollow is in the name / know it fills with a piece of you / had you even considered / how invasive masses can still be considered a “you” / the skin holds the blood not spilled / you are red and blue from the needle / and at least it’s not a wire / not the shiny glint of a sharper edge / slicing into the parts of you / that scare you / all in the name of health / you are blue and purple / from just a sample
Hunter Blackwell is a Black and Native queer poet and author. They are a recent graduate of Northern Arizona University with their MFA in Creative Writing, though they do hail from Virginia. They are the recipient of the 2020 Diana Gabaldon Award and the 2018 Gorowny-Owen Prize for Group of Poems. Their previous works have appeared in Parentheses Journal, Kissing Dynamite, Barren Magazine, and others. When not writing, they are attempting box mix bakes and cosplays.