At the appointed moment
the surgeons, with great care
remove from her body
her womb –
a woman whose skin is wrinkled
as a dry raisin, her memory
slipping, lost.
It overhangs the silent rim
of a vessel filled with water
like a thick piece of liver,
its mystery laid bare.
I see the piece of flesh
where my life once lurked.
My wish to protest
spurts from the depths of my heart,
then turns into sorrow.
What does it matter
how many times she bore a life?
That vital organ
must have seemed to her
just a curse
taking shape in the bathroom
as a burning heat.
Perhaps its soul, turned into husk
after long and continuous hunting,
may rest in peace, at least hereafter.
Just before the appointed time
she stared for a while, intensely,
at the crushed and fallen light
beneath the wire mesh
outside her window.
She spoke in a fearless voice:
‘Now I’m only half a woman.’
The betrayal of loss
burning in those words
will never let me, at least,
be at peace.