They’re Cutting the Ovaries Out of Deer and Laying Them Out on Yoga Mats When They’re Done

Franny Choi

precious gut         dear dough         i have eggs it’s true

         i can make a daughter                   can proffer and bloom

                   if i choose         i could make me         whatever-fold i guess

i can catch my gut in a cup & tip         it into the trash

                   rashly         i discard with my own hands

lots of not-babies         none of my offal’s named         i don’t say

         this to be crass         i have eggs & limbs         & a tongue that crawls

to the side when i’m out                   cold, cut up         or rising

                   from plastic         wrapped         in fragiletape

                             or imagined broken                   when i imagine

         death it’s face         down in the mud                   i came from

not rubber         not plated                   not drawn or drawn upon

         not stitched         by a clean savior         not charcoal         not sketched

not a screen                        to write

         dear unmoving

         dear prey thing

         dear film still

         dear ally

         dear password



dear ruined ankle

dear tragic practice

dear broke-into

dear glass eye

dear proof

dear me


dear cut gut

dear body-ish

dear egg tendon

dear forced ending

dear meat

dear me

dear made-to-be

it’s true i have eggs         & i am afraid

it’s true i am afraid of being cut

         it’s true this makes me precious & maybe flushed


so i reach between my legs

i pull the string         the deer fall out

i listen as they hit the water in the bowl & the sound

doesn’t make me feel delicate at all

         i pull the lever


         i hope i wreck the plumbing


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