The Shape of the Gap
I give you the gap in my body
shaped like a conference pear.
You might keep it in a silver box
or else
in your anorak pocket
wrapped in a man-sized tissue.
The surgeon who gave me the gap
said I was looking down both barrels
of a doubled barrelled shotgun
assumed it was a metaphor
for bleeding to death
a hind caught in the crosshairs
of a huntsman’s rifle
so I let him take my womb from my body
zipping my face into a smile
as he zipped up my abdomen
tooth by tooth.
I held on to the gap
hugging myself from within
but the gap has grown bigger
the weight of its absence
filled with the keening
of unborn children.
I give you my gap.
You might wrap it in a man-sized tissue
or else
plant it in the garden
beside the daffodils.
Jean Taylor belongs to Words on Canvas – a group of writers who work in collaboration with the National Galleries of Scotland. Her poetry has been published in a range of publications including Orbis, Northwords Now, Freak Circus and Envoi.