Beyond the cherry trees, a wet Bank of America parking lot.

Someone’s written “No” all over the elevator walls: No, No, No.

Just when I’ve settled into the short days, the days start getting longer.

I shall evict my uterus for raising a ruckus inside me.

Tonight all the leaves skitter across the streets like rodents, so I swerve.

Say I’m not the only one who drools on the bathroom floor while flossing.

I hold my hands to light as if light could help me understand my hands.

The speculum inside me cranks me as open as I’ve ever been.

Poetry and I had a spat, but we’ll soon fuck each others’ brains out.

A book that won’t sell:

A Womb of One’s Own: Leading the Independent Embryonic Life.