Anne Barngrover

Pelvic Ultrasound

Ovaries: from Latin: ovarium, literally egg


I’ve waited to see you for years now

but when you light up the black screen


like night-shining clouds, I become

nervous and turn to the side. In static,


sound waves form you as sand does

to shipwrecked glass. How is it


that you and I always manage to live

among radicals—spiders electric


with poison, cat who sashays indoors

after a burglary, dirt clod that morphs


into a cricket frog? A gecko scurries pink

as sticky tack along the bathroom wall.


How it twirls to an embryo in my palm.

It’s expensive to get a good look


at you, though you’re not mine

to interpret what’s wrong. If anything


it’s a hypnotic display or a book

we hurled in the road. Once we broke


a bush with a loaf of bread, thrown.

Once we broke a bush with car’s hood.


The next day its bumper was smeared

with indigo. Any woman knows how


many colors can present themselves

in blood. Something must’ve happened


to make you go rogue. We used to connect

fragments of ice crystals. We needed chaos


and carnivores. Even wolves can change

the way a river runs, so what have we done


to cast biology into anarchy and fade

from our distinctive glow? Oh, you shells


along my vertebrae and the vertebrae

of my mother, you have hidden from me


an ocean’s depth, you of lunar odes

and filament, gossamer and tendril.


I can’t see much in the dark,

but I’ve felt your whispered pull.


We all are in need of rewilding.

You don’t have to do this alone.


ANNE BARNGROVER‘s most recent poetry collection, Brazen Creature, was published with The University of Akron Press in 2018 and was a finalist for the 2019 Ohioana Award for Poetry. She is an assistant professor of English and Creative Writing at Saint Leo University, where she is on faculty in the low-residency MA program in Creative Writing, and lives in Tampa, Florida.