Over lunch, you said you hadn’t written much
but nursed your fiancé’s sister whose tumor burst.
How could you have done otherwise? Death first,
then babies suckle as you get in touch
with the Mother archetype. Sure, you’re engaged
to a devoted man but he can’t breast
feed, can he? Babies are bottles of thirst.
Your words at lunch betrayed no sense of grudge.
Maybe I was too dense. Maybe too glad
I have a dick and not your breasts and clit.
I don’t have time and patience for the act
of bearing with the world. Never a dad,
I’m free to fuck and run and write of it.
I’m going to sign up on the job contract.
for J. E. P.