The father inside her, like a skeleton made of knives, bled her tissue until she collapsed into an apron and walked into the room supporting a tray of food and drinks.
She grew a mustache and threw footballs at horizons. Watched television with deep understanding. Created factories, gave out jobs like they were sainthoods. Then burned down the forests so the boys would learn how to weep at her command.
Fathers die like mountains. Mothers shimmer like lakes in the night. She could please herself as well as she could please a man. Eventually, she confiscated these temptations by turning them into terms of procreation.
Baby sucks her breasts. The father inside her wishes for the earth as he walks on the moon. We’re all high on menstruation. We all understand the wisdom that cannot be verbalized. Until the afterlife. Where it is of no use.
Copyright 1993, held by author