Guilty Women

There are corn crop circles hiding behind
the backs of everyone in town, bent ovals,

“I don’t need all the details,” he says. That’s
what they always say when a woman has to

explain why she doesn’t want to bare a child,
tosses a cob in the middle of the symbolic

field. I thought I was ready, able to take on
the slaughtering lambs, no rotting seeds,

but the stars make me feel guilty, blue with
burning hypotheticals like if your partner died,

and you married someone new, would you
possibly want a child then? Would I possibly

want to strangle the light out of my eye sockets
instead? Would I possibly move to Puerto

Escondido and only wear azul? Possibilities.
They’re all fucked up. I want tarot cards to

tell me the meaning on the carefully-laid stalks,
I want the stalks to tell me the way into laxblack

sky, and when I reach to tie a thread around a
white-hot star, there’s suffering for it, too.

My blood drop, it’s so innocent, such a pie-
perfect dab against the sterile floor, or something

that once was, reaching deep into your stomach
and put a clamp on your cervix. Goya knows

it is eternal, the pressure, the grasp from a heavy
hand that won’t let its grip go. It’s always deep,

deep in the center of the crop maze, deep in a
woman where the silver wrenches, the hunched

over boulder beside the abortion clinics.
Today, the angry mothers who didn’t have the idea

first and representatives of wooden crosses aren’t
throwing pebbles and condoms at the women

who walk through the doors, the snow is good
for that relief, it keeps all the bears buried,

although if you crunch gently in the silent
woods after the first few inches have fallen

and listen through the glittering wetness,
you can tune in to the low growling. And

if you crouch into the tightest ball, you
can fall like the heavy clumps of flakes

rolling off a blackened bough at the
lightest breath, separate into moth mist.

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