The earth is pregnant,
dew anytime.
Shoots and bulbs pulse
toward solar blossoms.
Everywhere I look, new life--
my best friend,
no really, I'm happy for her,
the lady next to me in the cafe
with the big, green leafy salad
and belly,
the lolita at the bus stop
yelling
at her boyfriend,
eyes swollen as her abdomen.
I'm sure I've even
seen some men set to pop--
just out of the corner of my eye though,
I look and they are gone.
The slut of a cat that lives
in the neighbor's rickety garage
is on litter #6.
I find myself waiting around
for her
wondering if it's something in the milk
I leave her.
I drink two gallons--
I am full, but not with child.
There are no buns in this oven-
yes, he is shooting blanks--
no, standing on my head after we
shag doesn't work--
and yes I believe in God,
but the saints must be backed up
because like you say
they are all working in "his time."
So yes it is spring but,
my body feels more like late autumn
and when I look around the waiting room
at this pathetic club
for the reproductively challenged,
soggy eyes and inflamed horomones
men with masculinity in question,
all sitting under a bulletin board
of smiling
twins--
triplets--
sextuplets--
a clown car of kids that are not mine--
it is hard to feel hopeful.
So for now I write.
Joining pen to paper
proves easier
than joining
sperm to egg. |