I want to have given birth 

to all my friends. A womb is only as good as 

its inhabitants. I think

twins will cure me. 

I floss four times a day. Call it

pruning, call it

nesting, call it

a shade of gender neutral yellow.

I want to have given birth but I’m grateful 

I haven’t. I don’t want to be occupied.

To fill motherhood hunger pangs I instead

plant rose hip & alfalfa 

along my gumline. My gap

tooth forming is a spindle for English

ivy. I dare the spider mites 

to find it, the lure 

of my terraformed jawbone too much. 

The mouth is a womb, is breeding

ground for the horticulture of distant

utopia. I tell the friends I want to birth

I’ll save them a spot each

in enamel hollows. I tell them

you buy more with garden than gardenia

even the ugly ones.

I forge myself, am incomparably 

gutsy, like a forest of succulents.

The upkeep is tremendous & 

costly, now tulips are preferential.

The friends I left to forage

freely find lustful my perennials.

With piston pistols & stamen missiles—

this poem will already have been written.