Capitulation East or victory West
my uterus may come to rest
splayed and flattened on a surface
smooth as a petri dish
where dreams of conception
slide into an oblivion of laws
on my body or yours, under the gun
for resisting the artificial implantation
of a monster’s rotting seed.
Unceded love and unwanted touch,
shock over the mechanical outcome
of a date rape upstairs
while parents stay glued to a glassy screen.
In the park, humping ducks teach teens
or slip their perfect families across a still lake
each identical iteration a long comma
feathered and reflected necks like a Sasquatch
arms upraised in threat or surrender.
So, the fallopian tubes flung high
seem to beak into politicians’ pockets,
and demand a sudden halt
to payouts hurled like scattered breadcrumbs
for mothers unable to resist the men they loathe
or feed the kids they have.