The Land Bridge

I tunnel my knees at the gynecologist’s,
my last-ditch attempt to investigate
what is wrong with me. In my hand, I hold
a mirror: shining up my skirt, the edges of me
fold like puff pastry. The crumpled pink thong
invents itself as a distraction. A hairball
promising teenage heartbreak and spring ––
I am told that we bloom estrogen. It is the rain.
Do we leak feeling like a hummingbird feeder
does water? Help me. Relax the knees. and open myself
like a coffee cup carrying its own name.
The thong is something like the tourniquet
during a blood test, a plumber’s run
at a leaking faucet, this, something
like a crushed place. During the weight exam,
my eyes poke holes in the signs promising
Pediatric Neurodegenerative Relief. I swell up with the tide
that is a held breath. The kind of motion that matters.
Probed with a stir-stick or tongue depressor. I am
a writer. I only remember being asked why I leak
girl. Maybe why I don’t bleed. In the lunchtime hours,
I work on my reconciliation, the reclaiming
of the land that is my tunnelled knees.
This is also known as the hospital, the grave
of living children. But I do not think I am dying.
I am asking why I haven’t bled out.