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In the kitchen, the oven clicks until it’s cool again, until the
weight I thought was needing a fuck cools and balls into something more
juvenile and optimistic. Mama would never
say that, even to herself—fuck.
My gyno checks to make sure my copper ‘T’ is adjusting to the
culture shock, isn’t slouching in her desk seat on my cervix.
She pats my thigh, says T looks fine, her Visa’s good for a few more years.
There’s a window in this kitchen that looks out on a square of glasphalt
passing for a patio. The afternoon maps theories of impulse and motivation,
maps how far the apple falls.
Maybe I need to make love, not fuck.
The oven clicks it out. She said not to worry, I remind myself.
T looks fine, a gifted student.
Laura Page is a graduate of Southern Oregon University and editor of Virga Magazine. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rust + Moth, Crab Creek Review, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, The Fanzine, Red Paint Hill, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Sylvia Plath in the Major Arcana, is forthcoming from Anchor & Plume Press.