Here, he says, let me take that for you
like my coat at a party. They are always
wanting to take it for you, always one
hand on the small of your back,
the other holding the door.
A wealthy Upper West Side couple
once offered $50,000 for my eggs,
fifty grand to poke needles in my stomach til it fizzed like
a bath bomb. When they do it to fish,
it’s called stripping. I paid off the car loan.
There are twins at Harvard Law with my eyes.
My friend hiked the Appalachian Trail. He said out there,
nobody tries to sell you anything. Two years later,
he gave his kidney to a brother. Sometimes
he dreams it’s dancing with beautiful women,
sliding up against their legs, pushing up their skirts.
Sometimes he wants it back.
I heard Thoreau’s mom came over every day with dinner and tidied up the cabin.
I heard doctors get paid by the uterus.
After they take it, there’s a grand buffet,
Steaming, gleaming piles of them,
pulsing,
red,
wet.