The Bite
by Rachel Neve-Midbar
How do I say it in more ways? Yes
the body—my agéd flung deep
into the unexpected. Of course
I anticipated hot flashes—waves
of humidity rising from between
my scapula like the sudden spill
of heat from the basement radiator
that thumps and pings when the steam
comes in. But not that. No, eventually
the heat passed on and I removed
the mint from the bathroom and replaced
it with lavender and lime. The unexpected.
My body suddenly asleep
like an adolescent princess supine
behind a wall of rosebushes. I leave
it most days swooned still
on a chaise lounge while I pass
the hours looking for it. Even the sight
of my lover's lovely physic doesn’t rouse me—
his hard muscled chest and arms, the satin
of his skin as appreciated as a nice piece
of art in a stranger’s living room. My poetry
behind a door somewhere cowering
beneath the desk. My mind dissolved
like a morning-after alka seltzer dropped
in a glass of water. At the Dr’s today
she searches in vain for my cervix,
takes a swab anyway of whatever might
be lurking still in my subterranean caves.
She says its a search for HPV cells. I want
to tell her I have only been with one man
since my last PAP in 2016. And he with me—
though I already hear the conversation—
who else has he been with? Nobody, I want
to say, but who knows? No one
is ever as he seems, not even my ovaries
which have shrunk and hidden
away with my poems. And insurance
doesn’t cover an HPV test
for a woman of 59 who has shriveled,
whose desire has abdicated, who should be
hidden, cavities dry and essence vacant.
the body—my agéd flung deep
into the unexpected. Of course
I anticipated hot flashes—waves
of humidity rising from between
my scapula like the sudden spill
of heat from the basement radiator
that thumps and pings when the steam
comes in. But not that. No, eventually
the heat passed on and I removed
the mint from the bathroom and replaced
it with lavender and lime. The unexpected.
My body suddenly asleep
like an adolescent princess supine
behind a wall of rosebushes. I leave
it most days swooned still
on a chaise lounge while I pass
the hours looking for it. Even the sight
of my lover's lovely physic doesn’t rouse me—
his hard muscled chest and arms, the satin
of his skin as appreciated as a nice piece
of art in a stranger’s living room. My poetry
behind a door somewhere cowering
beneath the desk. My mind dissolved
like a morning-after alka seltzer dropped
in a glass of water. At the Dr’s today
she searches in vain for my cervix,
takes a swab anyway of whatever might
be lurking still in my subterranean caves.
She says its a search for HPV cells. I want
to tell her I have only been with one man
since my last PAP in 2016. And he with me—
though I already hear the conversation—
who else has he been with? Nobody, I want
to say, but who knows? No one
is ever as he seems, not even my ovaries
which have shrunk and hidden
away with my poems. And insurance
doesn’t cover an HPV test
for a woman of 59 who has shriveled,
whose desire has abdicated, who should be
hidden, cavities dry and essence vacant.
Poet, essayist, translator and Fulbright Scholar, Rachel Neve-Midbar’s collection Salaam of Birds was chosen by Dorothy Barresi for the Patricia Bibby First Book Prize and was published by Tebot Bach in January 2020. She is also the author of the chapbook, What the Light Raeveals (Tebot Bach, 2014, winner of The Clockwork Prize). Rachel’s work has appeared in Blackbird, Prairie Schooner, Grist and Georgia Review as well as other publications and anthologies. Her awards include the Crab Orchard Review Richard Peterson Prize, and nominations for The Pushcart Prize. Rachel is a newly-minted PhD from The University of Southern California, where her research concerned menstruation in contemporary poetry. She is currently a Fulbright Post Doc in Israel translating the poems of Holocaust poet Abba Kovner. She is also the editor of the anthology Stained: an creative anthology of writing about menstruation (Querencia Press, July 2023). More at rachelnevemidbar.com