we do not need them now
these wombs that hide
behind our bellies
tulip shaped and still
waiting fruitlessly
if the maker was a woman
wouldn’t she have
a better design–
sitting quietly one day
in the garden
at the desk
in the lunchroom at the factory
each of us would feel its prick–
an economic folding up
inside us
meticulous turn and pleat
to nest there
exquisite
bird of passage