Not all ghosts are women—and this,
I know.
But the bowl in my hands still
asks me what I will fill it with. Blood stuck
in mouth and tongue limp like a gutted
fish, I feel the old rags growing
into me now. Wet towels hang
over my forehead in a fever—then, walk
across the road into town to buy milk
when I start thinking again. The calm of fallen snow.
You must not touch that one—but this, my doctor
tells me, poking in, prodding and stirring up children,
and you need not rely on yourself for procreation—
I cannot forgive that. He pulled out
a few pictures, some ads, and then came
the compliments. There is such thing as flying
without wings. A potato can reach the ground
with little but a soft splatter.