Monday, April 23, 2012

What If I Can't Wiggle Out Of It

With all my tad pole mite
I wish I could reverse insemination.

I have been pregnant more than not.

My nipples like glass in your mouth
My insides hungry gravel.
Hard sharp stones
no love, only desire
I just ate but I want more.

I stripped in a dark damp motel
with beach sand feet
was torn apart
by mouths
entered
and I will do it again.

There are lips and arms I crave
but they don’t sleep beside me.
His forlorn biceps
wait for me.
I roll over
give him my back,
check my phone.
Wish he’d snore so I could masturbate.
My hormones are raging cannibals.
I wish my backyard could prove so fertile.

I need a new season
the Christmas tree
lays dead on the sidewalk
I’m tired of cold feet
holding my heat in
so he’ll understand I’m leaving.

The garbage men drop trash everywhere,
and the street sweeper skirts around it.
This is a statement on class
how they feel about us
in our buckets and scrapers
spidery beats over speed bumps.
smog hugs these flat lands
follows a procession of funerals.
And he swears we can bloom here

This morning I took the pads from my purse
put them back under the sink.
Periods come when you're unprepared
I’m wearing white panties.
Later I’ll feel a slight cramp
hurry to check the tissue
for that slight pink
sunrise.

--Cassandra Dallett

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