I’m going to miss my neck.
No, I’m not headed to the guillotine,
or decapitating myself in some obscene
science experiment – though my brother
wants to freeze his brain, not by eating ice cream,
but trying cryogenics. I’m not into it.
But I digress.
Last year, I held a funeral for my uterus.
It was fun, and the hysterectomy went well.
And tube-tying and cholecystectomy were fine,
preceded by appendectomy and so on.
But those were a little different.
Stuff came out, like when I had my kids.
Now, they’re putting something in,
messing with nerve endings and spacers,
and for the first time, I’ll have a visible scar.
I used to like my neck. When I was thinner,
it looked long and wore jewelry well.
Kissable, an old boyfriend told me.
(I eventually married him.)
But who wants to kiss a scar?
Yes, I think I’ll miss my neck,
No, not the ragged discs getting on
my nerves (literally), sending mixed messages
down my arms. First I’m numb. Now I tingle.
Are those bugs walking on my elbows? No.
No, I won’t miss invisi-bugs.
But I think I’ll miss my neck.