Hipbone jutting out at the right angle, cocked and loaded, ready to go off like a gun. I used to wiggle down when I walked, because it made all my flesh bounce and the rhythm of my wobble pleased me because it pleased them. It made me feel like the stuff men sink their teeth into. But when they opened up their mouths, sharp rows of teeth were there behind the smiling ones.
When I read that women carry the microchimera of the fetuses they conceive, and also, of every man whose sperm has been inside them, I blister with rage. Is there nowhere in my body that has not been colonized? Do male microchimera get credit for every logical thought I have, for every time I’ve built a piece of IKEA furniture correctly, for my ambition? Have infinite particles of maleness made me what I am, just as they always claimed?
Looking at the picture of the lambs gestating in plastic, my neck gets rigid and all the tiny hairs stand on end. I think: Who needs a handmaid when you have a plastic bag? Then I tell myself to stop thinking like that. I swallow my fear and look back out the window. Daffodils open, then die in a week’s time, and then come the tulips, whose petals remind me of the skirts of handmaids, turned upside down and blooming.