I am in love with my womb <br />& jealous of it. <br /> <br />I cover it tenderly <br />with a little pink hat <br />(a sort of yarmulke) <br />to protect it from men. <br /> <br />Then I listen for the gentle ping <br />of the ovary: <br />a sort of cupid's bow <br />released. <br />I'm proud of that. <br />& the spot of blood <br />in the little hat <br />& the egg so small <br />I cannot see it <br />though I pray to it. <br /> <br />I imagine the inside <br />of my womb to be <br />the color of poppies <br />& bougainvillea <br />(though I've never seen it). <br /> <br />But I fear the barnacle <br />which might latch on <br />& not let go <br />& fear the monster <br />who might grow <br />to bite the flowers <br />& make them swell & bleed. <br /> <br />So I keep my womb empty <br />& full of possibility. <br /> <br />Each month <br />The blood sheets down <br />like good red rain. <br /> <br />I am the gardener. <br />Nothing grows without me.<br /><br />Erica Jong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gardener-5/
