Without meaning to, I removed a woman's ovaries
today. For as long as I can remember, uteruses
only. I condemn them to death. I still speak of it

in the present tense, you see. Ovaries,
the true seat of power. They have not reconciled.
The hollow seeks to envelope, greedy,

a constructive eternity. Or at least a median
seventy-eight according to the latest data. It has to live
someplace else; they all do. I will cancel

all accounts. They come into rooms expectant,
an endless umbilical chain of need, everywhere,
reminding me: four oranges in the air, four

in my hands. This delicate balance maintained
by dedication to death. My cup of tea (lemon, sugar-
yes, please), these gleaming instruments. What we want

now is a perfect grammar of recognition: I've seen you
before. What did you build? I can dig
the earth and pull up looping strands resembling you.