Ovary ideas


year: 2008

I dreamt last night
Ideas were eggs.
We are born with each one
In our ovary heads,
A finite lot that grow
From willowy follicles
To be spat out monthly:
Each one a clock-happy seed
Of miracle or annoyance.

It makes me desperate
To think of how
I shat them out mechanically,
Bleeding for a cheap laugh or
Worse, those I blotted out in cotton wool
Because I didn’t like their timing.

Knowing what I do now,
I wish my body would have ached
For days in advance,
Forewarning the rush of potential:
I would have cleansed myself,
Jubilant, locked the door,
Teased it out with jasmine,
wine and tenderness.

And only when it
Had uttered its
Very last drop
Would I have understood
If, at last, I should
Change life’s linen.