Poems

Infertility

As I once again
spread my legs for yet another
prodding of my insufficient parts,
I brace for the familiar agonizing stab from
this faulty and unforgiving uterus.

I have decided
it is clearly an
evolutionary flaw
that the uterus has
nerve endings.

Surely, the few butterfly
kiss flutterings of a
half-formed child are
not worth a lifetime
of menstrual cramps--
not to mention labor.

My husband’s tests have included
only one humiliating session
of manhandling
and many visits to a small room
with bad European porno videos
that our joke-cracking doctor
says you need quarters to view.

It hardly seems fair
that he enjoys his pornography
while I take drugs
am stabbed with needles
and am repeatedly vaginally probed with
a ridiculously huge ultrasonic wand
(a condom kindly contributing to this parody of sex).

I need no further evidence
that God, laughing his ass off,
is a man.

To One Not Allowed To Exist: my baby not born

Occasionally I picture you
standing ankle deep
in blue moon water
after rain.

You are joyful–
nothing impeding
this fraction of time.

A honey Goddess,
you sing.
Voice drifting up
to the purple moment
of sky, worshiping
like music.

Your face a shiny peach rose tree.
Your beauty a garden.

We’ll meet in that
hazy pink dreamscape
so I can finally learn your name.

For now, though,
the harmony for your songs
will remain tattooed
on my heart
waiting to be sung.