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Its only my little home,
my nest of eggs,
my mistress of contractions.

My fifteen day nightmares,
sixteenth day C cup,
twenty fifth day cravings.

Locking the bathroom
to sit on tile,
screaming leave me alone

until I make the right wrist cut
or my blood starts to flow,
whichever comes first.

Theyre only my eggs, mis huevos,
my eternity. My immortality shooting off.
Each month, an ego of eggs

bowling down to the putting green
of evolution, and admirers
shooting sperm like craps.

Its only my reluctant,
malfunctioning organs of produce,
so why not let them be removed?

Because with them will go
all my poems yet to come,
with their dark moods rolling off

to someone more fecund, who hasnt
given up the right to live, and lust,
and spin out of control once a month.

Judith Pordon

published in The Ledge
Issue # 25, Fall 2001

Judith Pordon - Lack

Judith Pordon - Published Poetry

Judith Pordon - Tell Her We Are Friends