The Obstetrician

by Kim Triedman

MY sister-in-law was late for work. ''They'll be
waiting!'' she cried, to no one in particular. I tried to
picture it: all those pregnant women lined up like
jumbo jets along the runway. She checked her
watch, swilled the last of her coffee. As she was kissing
my brother goodbye, I asked her how it felt, arriving
to that every morning. '''The vaginas?'' she asked.
''It’s brilliant,'' and she was gone.

It was all too much. I went back to my toast. My brother
folded the sports section lengthwise across the table.
Driving home through traffic I had to stop on Route 9
for a rafter of wild turkeys, five Toms fanning their
tail feathers and waggling their wattles, bearing down on
one outmaneuvered hen. But even then I
couldn’t help thinking about my sister-in-law and about that
pile-up on the runway; about opening each door to all those
knees tilting, those moist, life-giving wombs; plump, varicosed
legs dangling from their shining stirrups in a great, warm
HALLOOOOO!! of a good morning

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