I sometimes think you are every bit
as wicked as Germaine says you are.
From those first clawing aches
and heavy clots
that kissed farewell to childish thoughts

to immature scares in the early days
when it was easy to think
using you… was a foregone conclusion.

Was I right to block you out with
pills and latex and fervent prayers?

Gertrude was right when she said
I have more control over my writing
than I do over you.
Yet you are mine;
my flesh, my burden to bear,
I do feel your mystery heavy inside me;
I’ve never seen you and I never will.

Nizar Qabbani says man comes forth from the womb;
it’s nothing to do with ribs
so why do I feel this lack of control?
Of course the irony now is that
as I hurtle towards my middle age
I feel your urgency more than ever
and now, now I can’t answer you and the question,
the question that circulates in my mind
like a constant white noise
is that when I finally need you…
will you yield?