Deduction Poem by mary morris

My mother says, you know the person
who brings the uterus on Sunday?

Ma, they took your uterus.

Nearly five decades ago,
following ten acts of childbirth,
a surgeon closed her womb.

No more bodies coming through her.
No more bearing down.

Honey, you know, what is it called?
Uterus?

My mother, victor of crosswords
is deeply concerned, her head bent

over her chest as she searches
for the word on the shelves
of her temporal lobe.

Ahh, Eucharist, I say.
Yes. And she thanks me,

her interpreter in the country
called forgetfulness,

her guide through the nation
of memory.