How had I come to be here-Elizabeth Bishop

I choose a corner seat where I can see

the Bunker Hill Monument, a solitary pike

rising skyward. Remind myself to feel

lucky. As my mother taught me,

I'm wearing my best underwear, hands

folded in my lap like a supplicant, alert

for the sound of my own name being called.

A woman all in yellow is led through

the double doors, her straw bag stitched

with pink flamingoes. Then it's my turn.

They put me in stirrups, paint my insides

with iodine. I say, It's okay, you're not

hurting me. A couple of snips and it's over,

pieces of me float in a jar. Just some silly

cells gone wild, something to be managed,

like my ex-husband or the sumac that keeps

trying to take over the lawn.