harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
there is no pill to keep me still , not for the supposed hysteria of female flesh, of our lunar fallopian tubes:
no synthetic oestrogen in muted milligrams mulling in my blood to sterilise my skin, there where my body would grant one little ovum;
i would not even see it on the tip of my finger; this young half life that lingers low, safe and sound until my body lets it go.
with no pill to stop my body still, i think of Mrs. Dolly Schiller's dead little girl sleeping in Gray Star, born cold as snow on Christmas Day.
with no pill to regulate, to stagnate the play of hormones, what i felt in my world with my body dull and dormant,
i think of the times you laboured on top of me; my female flesh forlorn for how i wished it would end when i thought you must have hated it: how i had to plead with you for love, my love --
and now there is no little yellow pill on the tip of my tongue each morning: i go to dip my fingers in the yolk of a cracked egg, and taste what might have been a soft sunny chick in my mouth --
no pill though my maybe babes will so often sink in bloodied sheets; and poor Dolly will still lie with her baby in the longest of blue sleep.
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