Woman

When they slit her abdomen open and excavated her womb, they found it was connected to two small organs the size of nuts. They took the entire structure—the womb, the pendulous appendages and the sacred passageway into her—and placed it on the surgical table, and there enshrined in blood, veins visible through a translucent veneer of skin, it seemed to glow.

They smiled and named it womanhood, they joked when they measured her cervix, there is little erotic about an organ isolated from its owner but they knew nothing of that small half-pound of flesh but pleasure. They dissected it to discover its linings and folds. They slit the fertile field so blood spilled across its furrows. A waste.

Someone was rough with her, said one, have you seen how it has stretched? Like your wife’s, quipped another, or that girl you had on the roadside last week. Cheap. A finger in mucus and blood, he pleasured the organ though it didn’t respond. Then sketched her vagina, jealously hiding its beauty with each stroke of his pen.