Someone Else’s Ovaries

are starring in this silent movie
adrift in an indecipherable soup
the interior of a small triangle
some invisible windshield wipers
have cleared the rain
and now we have view

the left pea pod is asleep
they are craters on the dead
surface of the moon
or maybe they are tiny
mouths of goldfish
breathing in
breathing out

the right pea pod is distant
a smudged comma
a veiled shadow
a vacant hammock

we have been here before
the dim optimism
the silent connecting
of the dots hoping

20 millimeters or
the really really big

black circle

I saw it only twice
once a bulbous cyst
suffocating the rest
the other never realized

she says there will be more
little white pills
rollercoaster moods
needles piercing my hip
waiting and wanting

but if these are my ovaries
I should recognize them
I should be able to shame them
nurture them, make them fertile
because I said so