Cracked an egg on my head

and let the yolk drip down

 

In thick yellow streaks,

sticky in my hair

 

We both dribble, 

wet and unfertilized

 

Burnt butter sizzles 

in the corner of my ear

 

The dead pig is splayed in strips

on my countertop, eyelessly watching me 

 

Perhaps he knew the hens

back on Doolittle Farm

 

Do they know they are born

to be reaped?

My uterus aches and churns its soil,                        Must purge the urge to reproduce

  gnawing for seeds.                                                              or else corral myself 

          My lips pulse, begging                                      in the chicken coop.

    to squeeze out something                                     What’s my purpose,

          fertilized, not just the usual                        if not caring for anyone

         shedding. Prostaglandins force                 but me? I don’t have long   

                 contraction in anticipation;              to bloom

                                        I’m punished           before my soil hardens.

                                 for my virgin soil           I’m reminded, when

                                                                  I

                                                                  B

                                                                  L 

                                                                  E

                                                                  E

                                                                  D

                                         every month for my empty garden,

                                                I am built to be harvested.

 

Static hums as the water

slowly transforms in the kettle.

Minuscule bubbles,

steady seamen,

swim up.

 

The tinfoil waits her turn to shine, 

nevertheless shining while she waits.

Flirts with the harsh kitchen light.

 

The kettle stands stable

but an ultrasound reveals her howling innards.

 

A crescendo of noise!

steaming and begging to explode out 

of this womb,

no longer searching swimmers

or embryos

but fully-fledged fetuses,

the bubbles rumble,

 

come flowing out of the kettle

to fill a cup of uncooked ramen.

 

Unplugged, the mother’s cord hangs limp.

She relaxes as the tinfoil takes her cue 

and contorts herself, 

crinkling around the open, begging mouth 

of the cup.

 

The tinfoil folds herself over it,

protecting the boiling water 

because the mother cannot. 

 

Then together, the foil and the water

warm the ramen noodles,

melting them,

 

and the noodles are grateful,

for they no longer stand stiff and tense,

cracking limbs with every risky movement. 

No, now they can lounge, flaccid.

 

But the noodles resent the water

because the water holds them down

and they cannot kiss the tinfoil 

to thank her

and too soon the tinfoil has left without

saying goodbye.

 

And lo! the fork penetrates, 

squishing and swishing 

the noodles, weak and malleable,

and yet they resist–

“where did she go?” 

 

They can’t see the tinfoil

lying on her back like a dead bug

with only droplets

spotting her round crater,

her edges raised like uneven fences

of aluminum 

as if to say “back off, leave me be…”

 

The seasonings swoop in, 

absorbing the settled water,

giving purpose and taste to the droplets, 

grown-up babies stolen from the kettle’s uterus 

 

but no one remembers the kettle 

anymore, anyway.

I miss the simplicity 

of the big soft colorful 

blocks 

of my childhood.

 

RED YELLOW

GREEN BLUE

 

I forget how to play,

 

but I remember 

how to build 

tight lego walls

– the kind that hurt 

your fingers to 

pull apart – 

attempting to 

block you.

 

Each time you diligently dismantle 

the pieces of my excessive defense,

your fingers grow red and raw.

 

We spend hours 

dissecting

and

reconstructing my 

blocked 

thoughts

before we finally 

place them gently

back in my brain

box.

 

Dried tears contrast

with my wet organ.

Only when 

you play her keys

can I become 

something

out of nothing.

Why is it that I always

want to end my “episodes”

with a fuck? 

 

Sometimes,

I think I rebuild those lego walls 

just to find out how long 

it will take you to give up

so your fingers can finally heal;

 

you never do.

 

Sometimes,

I imagine myself postpartum, 

crying with our baby at 4 a.m.,

writing myself messages in letter 

blocks:

 

w o r t h l e s s

 

You change her dirty diaper

but can’t change my dirty brain.

I hope my breast milk 

isn’t spoiled with this pain.

I put Baby in the cupboard

and let the salt shaker suckle at my breast:

I’m not fit to be a mother –

what Mother always said.

 

I drink laundry detergent like wine,

and later find Baby’s christening dress

– once white as communion wafers –

stained red as the blood we bless;

still I hang it on the line.

 

Like a proud husband would

the sheets of his virgin bride, 

splattered with the wet rosy 

spillage of her tide.

 

I look at Baby. Baby looks at me,

with big blue eyes that hold the sea,

but which cannot see this greyness

that storms inside of me.