Gardener

I am in love with my womb & jealous of it. I cover it tenderly with a little pink hat (a sort of yarmulke) to protect it from men. Then I listen for the gentle ping of the ovary: a sort of cupid's bow released. I'm proud of that. & the spot of blood in the little hat & the egg so small I cannot see it though I pray to it. I imagine the inside of my womb to be the color of poppies & bougainvillea (though I've never seen it). But I fear the barnacle which might latch on & not let go & fear the monster who might grow to bite the flowers & make them swell & bleed. So I keep my womb empty & full of possibility. Each month The blood sheets down like good red rain. I am the gardener. Nothing grows without me.