Where’d My Uterus Go?

Detroit, perhaps, in solidarity

with all those lingering falling down

factories, that sad used up city,

and of course Michael Moore

is there, patron of welfare mothers and Flint. Michael, Michael Moore,

like an angry maternal deity

persistently knocking

at the gate of the still-born nation, the Corporation,

his heroic face in the window, his sincere heart fat

with is own secret hoard

of uninterviewed, uncatechized

complicities.

Or how about, even weirder, that scary

Himalayan monster, K2. That’s where my emptiness

has gone.

K2, most difficult mountain, too severe even

to warrant a normally

lyrical name, just a number and a letter, points on a map

relative to other

points on a map.

Or maybe Mount Everest, Mount Everest yes.

Oxygenless, that famous upper wind always sheering

off the top, like thoughts striking out for Thailand or Hawaii

or anyplace sane, meaning warm,

but probably in fact getting nowhere, dissolving at once in the dangerous heights,

yet launching forth anyway, always just stepping free

of the ground.  

That’s enough, don't you think?

Because we’re modest, so very modest. We only ask that life

be intense, even lethal, in its instant.