My womb is already fat with child
the day after we fit each other together
like human puzzle boxes and already
I want to be rotted fruit, forgotten as
the day we fit each other together
atop a mattress with a black hole center.
I want to be rotted fruit. (Forgotten,
my seeds drift, unplanted in old grounds.)
Atop the mattress with the black hole center,
we locked into position like five-tiered stars.
My seeds drift, unplanted, in old grounds,
ungluing in slow visceral dances.
We locked into position like five-tiered stars,
tilting in the sky and telling fortunes, then
ungluing in slow, visceral dances.
I hate to be taught anything disposable.
Tilting in the sky and telling fortunes, then
plummeting: life is unfair and miserable.
I hate to be taught anything disposable
about love and goodness always expires
—plummeting. Life is unfair and miserable
from inception. What can a seed tell me
about love? And goodness always expires—
it is bloody pulp between my legs.