about the baby

you sighed at last and said to me, i want a passion ring, a butter bowl and a baby. 6 pm. your husband away. your indications, a plenty. a chilly north evening in your manhattan apartment. you took me by the bed and said to me, we fuck here. know how it feels? 

disgusting.

but i want a baby. a toy, you explain. for the proof of a youth womb architect. to experience the dictionary slogan of maternity and suckle-feed. i want a suckle. and shove it in her face. the anger over your motherhood and the complications are engraved on your breast. you tidy in the cups and pour honey over. the integrity of my genomics, i do not care. never will. but i want to converse with a happy lesbian surrogate. and talk diapers and perfumery. and pretend excuse. relieve from accusations of my mottled hormone strips. justify tardiness for my baby needed milk. people usher sympathy. i need sympathy and contradiction. and do because i suppose. it is an expectation of social sovereignty. a yardstick of reign power. me. a woman of vagina smells and lipstick blush rouge desirability. a super-imposition among the feminine ballads, a status-seeker want worth. come here and touch my nipples. you see what i say? they are painted. and to enhance, i sometimes stick a few mothballs in there. 

if i could have a baby, i may want it to perish aside. while sleeping. while drugged. so it may never learn the anatomy of art or the history of political philosophy. or the antics of the spiritual abyss. or the taste of cum. relieve in the invisibility of an unattained, depreciated identity. what if it were a trisexual costermonger? i shudder to envision the meretricious child. a souvenir of sex. a prototype of an idiot mother and broken hymens. me. a woman of finesse and gore. of failure and lust. an alcoholic youth. a garbage bag product of the whore pedigree. i rose to this status of subdue and filth. it was rape. come feel my lips. the story never leaves.

since i could and never would, come to my flesh. touch and breathe the pallor of my cold, unconvincing body. he never knew, and never will. i rid my womb. belated life. at 9 pm. saturday night. 1986.