Gladys's Ovaries
Not round or square
maybe slightly dented.
They are out of place,
removed during summerís heat.
She sits by her window
looking at the children play;
None are her own.
She daydreams of breast feedings
while she sits near her window.
She memorizes their faces.
Her ovaries are lost.
Somewhere in a jar?
Somewhere in a box?
No cocoon to look forward to,
no womb to caress.
Her ovaries are in a tin,
in a drawer,
in her brain,
tucked away deep in her thoughts.
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