this bulb. I had so planted it

that way. watered and put it so that

the sun swallowed its perimeter.

the dirt uneven around it is the gate

and blanket of love.

do not think that this

is its only garden.

many bulbs, have I, planted

in other gardens. but these are

my gardens. I am the turtle

that burries her eggs.

no, not ever should or shall

any leaf tear in any way.

no, not ever should or shall

any petal lose its color.

to ensure the color (of roses) on my cheeks.

with every menstruating week, she mourned each egg gone.

the children they could have been. the work, the chemical, hormonal

processes and systems in her body that made them so

and they left so wastefully. so unpurposed. and abused.

the blood in which they came (it symbolized what blood

could have been from them, her blood and (his-who? blood mixed

like paints to make new colors) stained her clothes. it stained her heart.

like rotting on daffodil petals on her heart.

That's so many kids. She knew. It was not exactly possible to

have them all any way because when you're pregnant you would not release

eggs but when you start again, those eggs would have left anyway had you not been

pregnant and then again, being pregnant, your body would not be

producing more eggs, and what would those eggs have been?

there was no basket to keep them from cracking, not her underwear anyway, from leaving her

body. her fallopian tubs were leaky pipes.

her uterus served as a vaccuum bag that took in eggs

from the oviducts and then emptied out what it considered dirt.

but dirt is the foundation in which bulbs grow.

my cracked eggs. sunnyside up. have useless energy.