God is my Uterus


she said break him.

head up. sultry siren
in right corner stuffs 2 containers
low-fat non dairy creamer
inside left cashmere pocket.

look away.

i tell her my tuesdays were shot this year
gunned down in wal-mart next to grade A
pasteurized cottage cheese and i can not recall what else.

she remembers the boy
& how they said his brain splattered stock.
ricocheted pieces of memory off quaker cartons.
girlfriend screamed while clerk called
for clean-up in aisle 9 & applied
dingy white rags
to the mess.

besides, i tell her. i do not believe in sacrament anymore.
god is my uterus--a deep fleshy wound
filled with vinyl, red velvet cake, 1979 summers
holiday gumdrops. berry stems. all things desirable
& tempting.  succulent.  creative &
i do not want to break the boy.

she says we have these things called hearts.

between smothered covered chunked bites
i tell her i understand
i know
but my heart wanted to push
his babies from my hips.
create chameleon eyes with blonde hair
his smile, my vision, fingers from each

and now my heart just wants...

she says my vision is changing.
she's watched it change; heard it stumble over sock heaps,
dirty towels, last night's apparel:  grey dancing pants & lip gloss
strewn on the floor at 1:33 a.m. when i
am too drunk and sleepy
to drive home.

i tell her i understand.
i know. i am two tequila shots &
a merle haggard soundtrack away from lonliness.
my eyes have not been alive in 368 days.

it takes so much to make me feel beautiful.

she says you have this thing called a heart.
it opens and closes with the tide.

i tell her i am the tide. god is my uterus.
his eyes were salvation. my skirt, uplifted, divine.
i didn't want to break the boy but
my body was birthing blue
like no woman had ever birthed blue

& with him
the creations were stillborn
unfamiliar. splattered & unmoving,
like the boy in aisle 9 whose eyes
turned cold after the rush.

between clink & clatter of lipsticked coffee sips,
blue eyes connect with grey glassed reflection.
in the background, aproned mother flips wrist, answers cell phone
while the cashmered siren counts three pennies & waits.

across booth, she looks up. over. into glass.
watches me watching.

says i know.
i understand.