Some women think I have face creams
instead of children.
And I do.
Do they know how smooth they go on, too?
How I place them on the silent shelf nights,
These products of my long labor?
And can they conceive of
How nicely they sleep in their little white row,
Their right little pink little row,
Their gelatinous bellies full,
Smelling of roots,
Smelling something like becoming.