Fertility

They say women are born

with a finite number

of sentences in them

but like eggs in Rube Goldberg's

gangly machines

they still wobble out of us,

fill the whole way down

with suspense.

Some days mine stay

buoyed in the thin air

between tasks, then

end up silent run-ons,

their mascara running,

their bodies frozen

just to the right of the stage.

Speak them all we won't

and thank god for that.

Reflect and linger

under our eyelids?

I’m afraid they will. Every last

one of them, like water's

light on a wall.