Jae Nichelle

You Goes to the Gyno

 

& the Black woman at the front desk asks You Your name,
d.o.b., & how many licks it’ll take You to get to the center 
of this sucker, because inside You’ll find your bill. she asks 
if You’ve ever considered, witnessed, or recently become
allergic to pregnancy. how long You’ve been Yourself & if You
is Single, capital S, & if You could be a kind of dessert 
which kind would You be. & why. when You passes these
entry riddles, You enter the audience & hear humming, akin
to the beat of Your ticking clock. now Your heart. no one else
is waiting for their name, only Yours. they’ve come to witness
You being weighed & measured, recorded, probed. a doctor 
appears—You?—the room silences, all heads turn. when You 
rises, they follow. the doctor asks if You has ever considered, 
witnessed, or recently become allergic to pregnancy. if You has 
been counting Your cheek hairs. if Your mother & father ever 
fought. well…yes, You says. the audience boos in rounds. 
are you happy? her eyeline descends your antipodal knees. 
me, or my vagina? the audience sighs. she winks at them, 
turns her speculum into a microphone, singing to You. 
are you on drugs? if not, why. & which drugs do you 
waaaaant. she spins in her chair as pills shoot from her 
fingers into the audience. the exam table pirouettes with Your 
feet in the stirrups, Your entryway visible & unadorned. she 
examines You in motion, her speculum an injustice. her 
speculum an ex boyfriend. her speculum a speculum. 
there is not enough blood for Your audience, they hide 
Your clothes as you come away leaking. she sings again that 
everything is normal, but Your period must be giving You 
trouble. sure, You agrees, my period is probably giving me 
trouble.
have You considered pregnancy? do your mother 
& father know of your sex life? what’s in it for them? a chorus 
now. the audience has joined—what’s in it for them! they are 
throwing sucker wrappers & ticking again. someone sticks 
Yours in Your mouth. it’s a sweetness You has been ashamed 
to crave; so childish that type of want. Your tongue ensnares 
the best part, the middle around the filling, which You must 
bite, only to pull a debt from between your teeth & find 
Your mouth full of tiny shards of glass.

 

Louisiana-born Jae Nichelle is the author of God Themselves (Andrews McMeel, 2023) and The Porch (As Sanctuary) (YesYes Books, 2019). She was the inaugural poetry winner of the John Lewis Writing Award from the Georgia Writers Association, and her poetry has appeared in Best New Poets 2020, The Washington Square Review, The Offing Magazine, Muzzle Magazine, and elsewhere. She believes in all of our collective ability to contribute to radical change.