I  am   trying to  bear a child   before  my   grandmother dies.   No  secretly  slipped  condom, no
clenching cum  like a bite of water, no. Rather I scour subways for a mate, reach  for the crisis of
give or keep so that in her life, my second-womb, my ultra-mother, might have a four-generation
photo to email New Mexico’s Maureen. So  that Mimi, my one-queen, my heart’s graffiti, can die
in quiet disaster, spilling from this planet to that, secure in the decision of her progeny. And if, in
these  formative years  of her aging,  in these  unraveling ones of mine,  I do  not meet  the lover
around  whose fingers  I can  fit myself  completely, then I shall   pray with the parish of my back:
Let me  be our  Mary.  Toss my  insides  into Armageddon, give   myself unto myself and like the
glorified carpenter you are, construct stemmed legs and a tiny heart in the  cake of me. Bring one
immaculate  child into this sore world. Let her  be mine. Let my  grandmother  hold her just once.

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