A Leveling of Preferences
A poetic indictment of birth control
I saunter past the topiary bears,
my hypothalamus ironed like a pair of Cameroonian breasts,
the clinics ahead a strand of implanted teeth.
Good morning, Ms. Perhaps this will be more tolerable:
slow-release Progestin! I just need to make an incision
on your arm. In some medieval church,
amid wickedly smelling wicks, the heretic’s fork
smiles into the flesh of some jacana woman.
On the way back, a spraying of luteal petals.
They’ve the color of Miss Havisham’s dress.
My soul is spayed is what I write.
My eggs are cut off from circulation,
stored in an empress’ bedchamber,
or else conveyed into Anna Swir’s minus life poem.
The drums tighten their hyena clitoris skins.
The men with faces scooped like Snow White cakes,
not the ones dripping
testosterone
from the stage sets
of their cheekbones,
light up my nucleus accumbens.
I am pilloried in contraceptive scent. My sweaty Budweiser
flaps like the manicured hand of an absconding woman.
The bar’s tabletop is derealized as trapdoor. I see Anise.
Aniseed bathing in thermal waters amid minty crags,
a bundle of sexy son genes on her shoulder.
Genes she smuggled some hot night.
I stab my nun-black pen.
My ovary is a spinster
dozing under the tarry roof
of some Third World asylum is what I write.
She’s a fusion of the old ways, the byways, and never-seen-before new wordplay ways. When I say nobody writes like her there is NO hyperbole in my statement…
Thank you for being you, Annie.
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