To Obey the Womb's Secrets

She leaned over the

the scratches of her poetry,

the wasteless litanies of How’s and Why’s--

Her husky dog yowled.

A need for the pellets of love

so close to the nadir of helplessness.

Would she ever return? So close

to the chicory taste of words,

which seems so bitter tonight.

And let’s not forget the water

for the bowl or sugar ants, invading

the stupor of trickling words.

Shall she wait until his gall

clouds more memory of that

encounter unfair and unchivalrous?

Those bottlenecks of times spent

licking up the detritus of those

who would judge her for calling on rain?

No. Yesterdays still live in the womb

of all women seeking answers from

the tombs of men who kill unceremoniously.

That spirit, again, of the most secretive

parts of her that live on the tips

of dying sunflowers and cigarettes.

Better to play more with the verses

of Now—no placating the endless

cry within but to reveal the leaking drama.

So back to the table she goes

and spills more light on the tropes

to harness that needful madness.

So brave, so close to the womb.