Anti-Conception
Could I unthink you,
little heart,
what would I do?
throw you out
with last night’s garbage,
undo my own decisions,
my own flesh
& commit you to the void
again?
Fortunately,
it is not my problem.
You hold on, beating
like a little clock,
Swiss in your precision,
Japanese in your tenacity,
& already having
your own karma,
while I, with my half–
hearted maternal urges,
my uncertainty that any creature
ever really creates
another (unless it be
herself) know you
as God’s poem
& myself merely as publisher,
as midwife,
as impresario,
oh, even, if you will,
as loathèd producer
of your Grand Spectacle:
you are the star,
& like your humblest fan,
I wonder
(gazing at your image
on the screen)
who you really are.
