A woman in the garden, is different
From a woman in the bedroom. Still she knows
How to use the spade, shovel or fork with pristine authority.
And like a Gardner she sows the seeds
On a little pocket, she digs.
I look in bewilderment at a gender
And then at God, at why or why
Weren’t ovary sacks made to hang from the throat
Like the tonsils, dropping eggs down an esophagus.
Procreation would have been a lot simpler then.
It must be truly exhilarating for a woman
To think of the female sea horse stuffing her partner’s pouch
With uncountable eggs, strings of spawn;
And dream, it’s his funneling mouth.