To be a man.
to be two men, together.
To feel absences filled—
hard pressure, thrusting pain—
to take pleasure without fear of fullness,
     without fear of my womb,
     without the threat of a body bloated with life.
     To never lie in bed, facedown, hand clutched
     against my stomach
     feeling the ache of a violated cervix,
     the angry uterine clench
     that follows satisfaction.

To be two men, whose orifices are conduits,
anatomical threads
stitching body and mind,
threads that stitch mouth to throat to abdomen.
Two orifices wired with nerves,
woven with veins that connect, excrete,
cleanse,
     while my orifice
     receives without expelling, gestates
     without consent, fuses wires,
     constructs mouths and throats and abdomens
     slight deviations on a threadbare pattern,
     a life that presses into the world flinching
     at the light, at the agony.