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.