I’m pouring water for tea when a coworker asks me

how long I’ve been married—four years this May. Oh,

he says, my son is nine now and tomorrow is my tenth

anniversary. His eyes drop with pity and bore through

my black ribbed dress, the concave rind of my abdomen

and its godless, vacant country. I say something trite

like time, how it flies while my womb burns a hot little hole

in his face—it opens up to outer space. Glistening,

my ovaries orbit like titanium satellites, lavish and idling.

I’m thirty—I only have about seventy-two thousand eggs

left. Each month a door opens—a jewel glitters and drops

into the abyss. One night I was in the city at a bar. A little

wasted, I took a picture of myself pissing away on the toilet.

If I’m ever a star, when there’s the book, this photo will be in it.