Because the Night
the morning I had an abortion
she came with me into the room
not at first but
when it mattered when
the poster of fluffy white
kittens taped to the ceiling over the place
where legs are spread and things
scraped out was too ridiculous to be borne alone
10,000 Maniacs doing Patti Smith
filtered down from the piped-in radio
and there was a moment of
focus
hovering around quiet nurses
the doctor and the kittens
but the nicotine-stains on her fingers
are really all I care to remember
of the cells I once carried but left
in a stainless steel tray
that went where?
now, too late to take it back
I don’t wonder what might have transmitted
through that meagre puddle of blood and clot
I know
it was a gallant gesture to sever
the too-familiar fear before fixation could root
like a stubborn weed in thin soil
The Man With One and a Half Testicles
My cat is jealous of my long hair, keeps trying to
Eat it. Remember the man with one and a half testicles? She
Asks, gnawing on a braid. Yes, I say, but you don’t, your grandmother’s
Teats weren’t even full yet. Stop
Trying to distract me. Tell me the story
Anyway, she says. I unhook her claws from my throat. The man with one and a half testicles
Started out as a boy with two testicles. The boy with two
Testicles fell straight down a flight of stairs, landed on a foosball table, lost an
Even ¼ of his perceived manhood. The boy with one and a half testicles got caught
Smoking behind the grocery store, played doctor and
Lost in fifth grade, grew
Into the man with one and a half testicles, acquired a fondness for muted
Kaftans and thick sweaters, smoked loose tobacco, drank cheap Sake, played doctor with
Errant teenagers and won, associated with Cuban conspiracy theorists, fed neighbourhood cats
Sardines from his basement apartment window, died from a
Massive stroke
At sixty-three. No, says the cat,
Licking my temple, not
Like that. The man with one and a half testicles
Deftly rolls a joint with nicotine stained fingers. Passes it to the sixteen-
Year-old in a park where the grass is cut and sweating. The grass is cut and sweating,
Itching the backs of the sixteen-year-old’s thighs, leaving criss/cross\marks, making her skin
Nervous like ants are marching, burrowing into the milk fat that will never fully
Grow to muscle. The man with one and half testicles hands the fat cocoon of the lit joint to the
Sixteen-year-old with ants burrowing into her thighs. She opens wide, swallows it whole.
E. McGregor is a settler/Métis poet based out of Winnipeg, Manitoba. Her work has appeared in Prairie Fire, Room, The Dalhousie Review, CV2, and elsewhere. Her first collection of poetry, What Fills Your House Like Smoke, is forthcoming with Thistledown Press in spring 2024.
IG: @capybarasrus