Where'd My Uterus Go?

Whacked on morphine, I said to my surgeon,
"Can I take it home?"

My sister wants to know where they put it.

O triangle. Mythologized and feared,

worshipped and detested.

I've been divested. I have an all-new lack. I’m incomplete as usual, sure,
but now I’m a round or roundish container
of matter called dark, like in space.
I have an inexplicable
empty fullness
at my core, which can’t be seen or otherwise detected,
but which nonetheless exerts a gravitational pull,

as astronomers

lately say. (How stupid of those brainy
men, for so many years, to limit their researches
to the visible
regions of galaxies. These days they rummage
for millennial collisions
in mica, they drill deep underground
to figure out what the hell
is way up there, out there,
which is here, where we are,
which is: I don’t know where.)
I remember a nurse or two saying

that eventually my jostling organs

would settle

into new positions.

*

I imagine it, for some reason, flying. Escaped
from some no-doubt appalling hospital bin
way back in the back, where all the deleted and expurgated organs
get incinerated
or compressed. Trick kidneys and uncooperative hearts.
The mystical appendix. Revolving door of the lungs.
A natty tooth in the dirt.

What’s there when even nothing is gone?
But I shouldn’t say it was nothing. It was a lush
bed, some days of the month. It was a lunar
module.

Yes, I’m sure. It's feeling right at home
in the sky. I bet it’s even thinking: what better time, after all,
to retire, be less than nothing, and at last do some traveling,
see the universe?