At the gynecologist

At the gynecologist

At the gynecologist

A #MeToo Poem by Jess Greenwald

I am sitting mostly-naked in a room that smells like rubbing alcohol and feels like a third miscarriage,

wondering why it has never occurred to anyone to turn off the AC in a place where all the patients have to be naked. The doctor

is wearing pink lipstick and I am thinking how latex gloves are kind of like condoms? Are you sexually active? I want to tell her

that my sex life is kind of like watching a plane crash, no—like that feeling when

Bluebeard’s wife found his trophy room of severed heads, and realized she was a butterfly with a pin in her sternum—

no, not since August. She picks up some sort of metal clamp and eases it up my cervix; it feels like she just took it out of a

refrigerator, or maybe like that feeling when you realize that the boy inside you has never seen a clitoris? I am feeling some

resistance, have I considered physical therapy or valium insertion? I am going to need therapy for this, but

I like to pretend that I am like any other girl I know. I like to pretend that I am not faked orgasms, I am not

scar stories and sweaty palms panic attacks and Klonopin and are you really gonna wear that?

I like to pretend that I can’t still feel that guy from UMaine stick his clammy fingers beneath the wallpaper of my underwear, like

he was entitled to it. Shush, honey, it’s supposed to hurt.



The Rebellion

The Rebellion

Under the Rhododendrons

Under the Rhododendrons