By Emily Clarke
I went to the ER because I removed my own uterus with fabric scissors and salad tongs. I plucked it out like the scrap of eggshell in the frying pan.
There was a problem. I wasn’t bleeding like I wanted to. I wanted to drain my gore into the toilet and flush. I wanted to wring my skin out like a rag. You’d think that fabric scissors would cause at least a little muck, a little something to wipe up, but they didn’t. So that was that.
The ER doctor was sexy and named Pedro. He had black hair and a thick nose. I thought maybe I’d ask him to dinner after this whole thing was over, but he was twenty years older than me and when he looked into my eyes and said It’s gonna be really hard for you to be a mother after this, I knew he wasn’t the one for me. He told the truth.
My uterus looked like mashed potatoes and blood. I thought it was kinda funny to see it lying there on the metal tray next to me, while the sexy doctor prepared himself for my surgery. I had said, please scrape my womb out like a watermelon when you get up there, and the sexy doctor had laughed, his face close to my belly, and said no.
Men never give me what I want. A woman would treat me like fruit. I think my uterus is a man.
I was born to birth.
Emily Clarke is a Cahuilla Native American writer, activist, photographer, Zine artist, and Traditional Bird Dancer. Emily graduated from Idyllwild Arts Academy in May of 2018 with a certificate in Creative Writing and is now continuing her study of writing at University of California, Riverside. Emily’s work has been featured in News From Native California, Four Winds Literary Journal, and Hoot Review. She has been a featured reader at events such as Indigenous Now, And The Earth Was Shaken, and UCLA’s Environmentalists of Color Climate Justice Forum. Currently, Emily is writing poetry exploring modern Cahuilla identity, feminism, and human intimacy.