14 doses to my 4 and she's throwing a party, in the sunlight, with dairy!
I don't feel competitive, I'll lose at every ribbon, last place at every walk.
I'm not even going to walk. Or bike or hike or do anything to cure
how uncomfortable it is to see sick people, and know that the way they are sick is the way you might become sick too. Are likely to, really.
Though not so soon as me, I wager.
(And loves, I hope. Don't get sick at all, please.)
I want all the sympathy, I want all the cute ones to color on my cast,
and I want all the awe, for being statistically unlikely,
and visibly altered, and walking ahead into the hormonal
empty light we are all walking toward, but I arriving
decades early, not walking, but transported,
sped there in just two dripping hours,
and maybe my womb will come back from the dead,
like a TV reenactment, a voice will say,
"It's not your time yet. Return." and like two eyes
in the head of the comatose, my two ovaries will
blink and smile, see their loved ones, weep
and little tears of estrogen will pool and spread
lift my flesh and keep on crying
they'll flood my pores, they'll wet my thighs,
when I kiss that one, anyone.
Maybe TV time is over and maybe reenactments too.
Tammy's eating ice cream and she's got no uterus now.
On the other side of this, what's love, what's loving?
How many Brooklyn parks have I sat in,
damp from kissing, damp with what comes next.
Womb come back to me. You glow and float
above the earth of parks. I planted this,
I planted that. Here and there, not watered, not weeded,
not wanted? Wanted like an ice cream cone.
No, I wanted the park, but now I want a home.
Womb, come back to me, I won't trot you out
every summer night. There's no summer here
and I know now, parks aren't for planting.
There's fog and vitamins in the sky and
I'm very slow, slow enough to grow
something in a box, in a yard, in a
bound. Come back to this bay with me.
Across the land there's a patient friend
knowing what to celebrate,
knowing how to want to win.
I don't feel competitive, I'll lose at every ribbon, last place at every walk.
I'm not even going to walk. Or bike or hike or do anything to cure
how uncomfortable it is to see sick people, and know that the way they are sick is the way you might become sick too. Are likely to, really.
Though not so soon as me, I wager.
(And loves, I hope. Don't get sick at all, please.)
I want all the sympathy, I want all the cute ones to color on my cast,
and I want all the awe, for being statistically unlikely,
and visibly altered, and walking ahead into the hormonal
empty light we are all walking toward, but I arriving
decades early, not walking, but transported,
sped there in just two dripping hours,
and maybe my womb will come back from the dead,
like a TV reenactment, a voice will say,
"It's not your time yet. Return." and like two eyes
in the head of the comatose, my two ovaries will
blink and smile, see their loved ones, weep
and little tears of estrogen will pool and spread
lift my flesh and keep on crying
they'll flood my pores, they'll wet my thighs,
when I kiss that one, anyone.
Maybe TV time is over and maybe reenactments too.
Tammy's eating ice cream and she's got no uterus now.
On the other side of this, what's love, what's loving?
How many Brooklyn parks have I sat in,
damp from kissing, damp with what comes next.
Womb come back to me. You glow and float
above the earth of parks. I planted this,
I planted that. Here and there, not watered, not weeded,
not wanted? Wanted like an ice cream cone.
No, I wanted the park, but now I want a home.
Womb, come back to me, I won't trot you out
every summer night. There's no summer here
and I know now, parks aren't for planting.
There's fog and vitamins in the sky and
I'm very slow, slow enough to grow
something in a box, in a yard, in a
bound. Come back to this bay with me.
Across the land there's a patient friend
knowing what to celebrate,
knowing how to want to win.
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