The Outer (Vulva)

Lyrics

Three fifteen in the afternoon.
The light is pale gold, coming through the high windows.
Dust motes turn in the shafts.
It's cool in here. Sixty-two degrees.

Mrs. Patterson leans closer.
The scent of her apple, left on the desk.
The book is Gray's Anatomy, from 1858.
The pages are thick, the ink is black.
My finger finds the chapter heading.
Plate 909.
Her glasses are perched on her nose. She is ready.

The word is *vulva*.
From the Latin.
It means a covering, a wrapper.
That is all the textbook says.
The outer part. The visible gate.
A clinical sound, clean as chalk dust.

Aulus Cornelius Celsus wrote it down for his sows, too.
The same word for the pig and the person.
The diagram is an engraving, all fine cross-hatching.
I trace the lines with a dry fingertip.
The paper is cool under my nail.
She watches my hand, then looks back at the page.
She is not looking away.

The word is *vulva*.
From the Latin.
It means a covering, a wrapper.
That is all the textbook says.
The outer part. The visible gate.
A clinical sound, clean as chalk dust.

Pliny the Elder wrote of shame.
He wrote of maladies hidden by modesty.
But there is no shame in this room.
Only the weight of the book in my lap.
And the quiet scratch of a quill in an inkwell somewhere down the hall.
And the steady light, holding the dust.
This is just a map. This is just a name.

I close the book. The cover makes a soft thud.
The lesson is done.
She takes a breath.
She picks up her apple.
The room is quiet again.
Just the sound of the world outside, getting ready for evening.
Just the Latin, settled and old.