My mother drew two curved
lines that curled like the top
of a heart or a waxed mustache,
and "these, my dear, are the fallopian tubes."
Graphite dots became ova
that shot out of tubes.
These were our eggs.
(So, we're sort of like chickens
but not really since the eggs
are never "laid" or fried
in butter in a Teflon pan.)
Instead, they shed and traumatize
young women trying to stem the tide.
We are, after all, moon creatures
with penciled-in parts.
[Check out Donna Isaac's back porch interview]