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,
stitching body and mind,
threads that stitch mouth to throat to abdomen.
Two orifices wired with nerves,
woven with veins that connect, excrete,
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.