Baby Fever

It started in earnest when I turned 24.
But maybe it started way before that
When I was six years old and somebody gave me a babydoll
And said, "Look at you! You are going to make such a good mama one day!"
And even though the memory is a smidge fuzzy
I imagine my precociously sailor-mouthed response was something like:
"Yeah, fuckin right I will."
Because "gonna be such a good mama one day"
is something I have known in my bones for as long as
I've been aware that I had bones and that they could know things.

And I don't think all women feel this way, nor should they.
I have friends who refer to children as "spawn"
And fetuses as "parasites"
And I totally respect that. This poem is not prescriptive.
It's just an attempt to explain to you
That in the last three years or so, something has happened
to my brain.
And it re-happens at least once a month--
You might even say cyclically.
I see a pregnant woman walk by and I go all melty.
Even worse, I see a man walk by and I'm all,
Mmm tss tss, mmm tss tss, mmm
You give me fever
I mean, not actually the Peggy Lee kind
Because, men...no...
I mean Baby Fever.
I've got baby fever. I've got it bad.

I start having a conversation with my ovaries.
Like I'm on the bus and a man sits across from me
And they're all, "Look! There's a sperm!"
And I'm like, "Shut up, y'all!"
And they say, "Make a baby! Make one now! He can help!"
And I'm all, "No! Guys! This is not a good time!"
"Not a good time? You don't need a full time job,
or health insurance, or a savings account! There's a sperm! Right there!"
"NO. That's a dude. And I'm pretty sure he's either homeless or a vegan.
And you have NO idea how drunk we would have to be
to think it's a good idea to have sex with a dude."

It's like my ovaries don't care that I'm a lesbian.
Frankly, it's a little insensitive.
But I guess they don't have to care because it's not their job.
Apparently, what their job IS, is to make sure that
every time I see a onesie with a frog embroidered on it,
or those tiny, tiny sneakers with velcro straps,
I'm droppin eggs like I'm the fuckin Easter Bunny.

I mean, I'm not saying I'm going to kidnap one
I'm just saying that if you have a baby
And it goes missing, and my oversized purse
Is looking a little full and a little squirmy
It's probably better if you just think, "Oh it's cool, I'll make another one"
And don't ask me about it.

Because it's getting serious up in here.
It's getting to the point where I HATE opening up Facebook
Because I went to an all-girls Catholic high school, which means
That everyone I graduated with is pregnant. Again.
And I scroll through the mommy blogs and the pictures of the cherubic,
Bright-eyed creatures with their culturally literate names
Like Escher, and Anais...and I feel like I'm doing something wrong.
And now I am begging the universe for confirmation that I am bigger than my biology--
That it's not just about survival anymore--that we are ALL bigger than our biologies

Even if sometimes I don't want to be.

In Defense of Delilah

I want you to know, Samson, I would do it again.
Even though it means the ruin of all of us. I would
Purr at your heels, take your head in my lap,
And slice those curls right off.

But not because they paid me, darling.
You and I know better than that.
We both know there are few things so expensive as falling in love
How it costs so much more than you ever think it will.

No, not because I was paid.
There was a night, Samson, I knew
What strength was. You breathed into my ear
And whispered, "Woman, take me in."
And I did.
You were heavy in my arms,
Draped like a dress across my torso.
You shuddered and slept, a pile of raw sinew, but
My hands were wide and consummate. I held you
Like Atlas holds the world
And in an instant I knew what it was to be strong like you.

But do you know what it is to be weak like me?
To have other men believe that you exist for them,
That you are edible, conquerable,
That they can legislate your body.

Tell me, Samson,
If you could unroll your veins like a scroll
What would I find written there?
I do not believe it would be the same story people tell these days.
I think it would say you loved me because you could bring me to my knees

Tell me, Samson, did the bible ask your consent when it told our story?
It sure as hell didn't ask mine
And I want to set the record straight.
I cut your hair because
I wanted you to wake up and face something Byzantine
That claims to protect you from your own decisions
I wanted you to try and fail to tear it down
I wanted to make us the same kind of vulnerable
And, Lord help me, I did.
I am not proud.

But history will paint me sinister.
Put me in with Jezebel and Bathsheba.
I stand with them as I stand with Eve saying yes to the apple.
I will link arms with other women
And we will cut off our hair too
Because our strength comes from someplace deeper.
And our blood will answer the cry of thousands of Philistines
And our blades will not be stilled.

Samson, I don't want to be this angry.
If there were any other way, I would take it.
But until another option presents itself, this is where I stand:
Razor in hand, I would cut your hair ten ways to Sunday
If I thought for a minute it would make us even