A bright red uterus hangs on my kitchen wall.
I check it intermittently. 

It is the size of a grapefruit o’clock. 
It is all ten toes away from the timer going off. 

My parents hung it up before they ran out. 
They’ll be back any segment now. 

The uterus kicks, the timer is done, and now 
it is wailing for our mother. 

I run to unmount it — I have to hold it
close, shoo away the fibroids. 

Size of a melon o’clock, she isn’t here right now. 
Find comfort in what is hollow in me, melon.

I shush away the contractions, swaying 
in the dark kitchen. Night squeezes into dawn. 

Sighing, I hang the uterus back onto my wall.
I watch and I wait for my parents. 

They’ll be back, I promise. 
They will be back. 

Isabela Marino is a Cuban-Colombian interdisciplinary artist currently based on Treaty 7 land. Their work primarily focuses on the intersections of their identities and their relationship to the earth. They hold a BFA in Music with a minor in Creative Writing from Concordia University, and they are currently a JD Candidate at UofC.