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.