My uterus goes by Jolene and refuses
to wear white like the growth they cut
out of her (not a cancer scare; that scare

came later). I ask Jolene about death
since they’re friends, but she brushes
her flaming hair, silently works out the

tangles. I tell her she doesn’t scare me
anymore and she sips boiling water —
salted. I’ve been told Jolene’s illusive

at parties which I respect, but why can’t
she dance when the music’s right? Unlike
Jolene, I’m not a killer, while she killed

my son. I ask her why she did that but she
just gets to work on her hair. Jolene came
to my son’s funeral but I don’t recall the

colour of her dress and I don’t recall her
wearing a dress — I don’t even recall her
having a body. All that aside, she played

the bagpipes which I said was too much
and too little. She looked at me askew like
I spoke in riddles. That night, we shared

the same bed and I asked if she’d kill again.