poem: breasts and eggs

she is standing in the stairway — red overalls and shiny
black hair dancing around her neck in the lopped-off
way that i always wanted (when i cut my hair short
it is a tempest, a misery.) she is maybe forty, she looks
twenty-five. i want to ask her: why is it
when i have just gotten over
one thing, another thing hits — and another — and
another? existentialism is religion for the post-world-war
people; do you believe
we can make our own meaning? she leans into her pressed fingers
green tea wrapped over her legs, she says
I started publishing poetry by submitting to literary journals when
I was twenty-nine and eventually I won a small literary prize
for a novella about the nature of bodily autonomy and modern woman-
hood, which I then extended into a novel which won more major
prizes and was eventually translated into twenty-seven languages including
English. she says,
but I cannot say anything about the nature of
life. outside there are small swalls of clouds and she retreats– lonely
into the blue twilight dusk that comes from — where? I wonder how she,
a woman with no children other than the novella and the poetry
publications, will sleep tonight. is there a carved out blank
space in her stomach? is she possessed by the same mad desires to go
spilling herself over africa, asia, europe and then come home
like a soft conqueror, her face mussed-up with the history and five or
seven new stories born in her head — we are all desperate
to be the Creative, to have our dripping sinful face
repeated ad astra, forever and ever Amen.

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