When but a girl, I peeled an orange bare
And I wanted to emerge like it, fair,
And belovèd and able to quench thirst.
I still search, peeling still, but in despair.
An orange is like a wet, swollen birth
And as I have coaxed many, I have mirth
At the thought of conceiving, but I can’t
So I seek my child from peel to unearth.
Two of the Fates, they plucked me—they fucked me—
And now, I have no children but debris;
I was raped by Fortune, yet I am still
Hopeful for an easy delivery.
Rumour on swift wings has brought to me strength
And an invitation asking at length
If I could attend the Chatelaine’s tea
Which will take place in her den on the tenth.
The Chatelaine gave me a saffron dress
And a pearl comb to use and to impress,
Now I have a voice; now I can bear, bear
My little word-child—one gives as one gets.
Thoughts, like children, grow within us and pain
In birthing them exists to teach us plain
And simple that we are not Creators
But that we are only what we retain.