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Plums

"Look at this," she said
as I was passing by her cubicle
and she showed me a scanned-in image
of the stained glass
that she had crafted between long hours
at the office

a perfect representation
of a perfect plum vagina

"Is it O'Keefe?" I asked, after admiring
it properly. It was. She
would give anything
to be able to paint like that.
She just cut and stained glass

I was never clear on her motivations
maybe she showed that image to everyone

She was exactly 20 years my senior
her hands shook when she talked
she had a thick New England accent
as rustic as the Texan accent
I've always covered up
she never made eye contact
and I doubted her vagina
or even her daughter's
was a perfect plum

I disappeared from that job,
Wound up in a private institution for
people whose spouses have health insurance.
I never returned to explain my absence to my boss,
or to her.
It probably wouldn't have mattered if I had.

But I still wish
that her vagina
was more like the one on the glass
and less like
whatever it may be:

That the world was filled
with perfect plum vaginas
neatly folding labias
for every woman, girl, and M-to-F
instead of the
smelly,
dry,
unpredictable things
they have today
even though
I would probably never notice the change

Diversity is overrated.
There is nothing more comfortable than
a natural
conformity:
two arms
two legs
and perfect plum vaginas
the world might have fewer artists, then
but we would surely need them less

And I can't help but think
that if fewer things were different
fewer people would feel shame
and fewer people would feel fear

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