The Procedure

by Isabelle Wedin

But surgery? you ask;
there's beauty in the assembly of a body,
the rearranging of flesh,
each unwieldy piece carefully positioned,
made new by negative space, but you
can only see the blood,
so I'd rather talk about the having
than the losing.

Let me show you a magic trick:
all you need is a pair of ribbed tights,
a 10-pack of shitty control-top pantyhose,
and scissors.
See? Your legs go through here. Simple.
The hard part is the chafing and pinching and itching,
the pushing up, pulling back, and inevitable falling out,
complete with oh god where's the ladies' room,
tugging down your shirt,
and in your skinny jeans, no less.

All this in pursuit of that perfect, impossible line,
straight down the front, curved to the back,
which you take for granted
but which I inspect from
every angle, to make sure they're all safe.
So that we can piss side by side,
and as you walk past you can see me
through the crack in the stall,
wide-stance and hunched, clawing at my crotch.

So that for however many hours,
I can take hold of my brain's map of
my body and fold it in on itself.
So I can spread my legs like
the fallen femme I am, and still dispel
the notion that I am a proper fucking lady,
but on my own terms.
And so that you can welcome me
to womanhood one more time.

But while you're asking, yes,
just cut the damn thing off already.