forceps ovenbird “Let’s play mechanic,” he whispers and she finds he is holding a pair of ovum forceps delicately in one hand. He runs stainless steel fingers over her shoulders, trails the hinged extension of his will down to the softest parts of her, parts that yield without permission. He explores her body like she once explored the corpse of a rat in high_school biology: cutting little windows into the chest, pulling back the blinds to see the remnants on display inside…a formaldehyde museum. She is not dead. Not dead. But she is afraid, and she twists her limbs away from his searching tools and reaches for warmth that isn’t there. If she turns herself just so and stares at the white abyss of the wall she can pretend he’s someone else. She imagines hands that are always a delicate question: “May I?” Then she closes her eyes while every memory is aborted, leaving her raw and empty and bleeding so quietly into the sheets. 260913 what's it to you? who go blather from