How hungry they must be
swimming through the glassy fluid
of woman, straight in their ranks,
eager for the fourteenth day.
Small boats oscillating. And the
"radiate crown" and the ovum
containing its hunger also.
Each waiting to be filled in the other.
The body heated with the implanted
appetite, the continuous
swing between preparation
and destruction. This pendulum
of grief. Nothing
consoling it wholly. The suitors
wait in their nourishment
of the oviduct. Waiting for that
cell like a savior, like the host.
And then becoming that one
finally, that thing born of water
and spirit, transforming
in all directions, carrying
its cord and tail,
carrying its mouth,
its soon to be belly,
carrying that mark,
that message,
that world without end.