Pink Blue Bird

It sat at a cabin in the swamp that we were looking at buying. By a painting in the house, I judge that it has been here for about 15 or more years. It's an attic. I took several pictures of it, for soon, if the place is sold, it will get hauled off to who-knows-where. I was there at this point of decay... and life.

It is art in progress, as are we all.

To my Uterus

Dear Womb,

Have I not been a good hostess?

For twenty-eight years I've been a victim of your self-regeneration. Month after month, the same old thing. Raging hormones, 5 or more extra pounds, swollen ankles, puffy everything, crying at sappy Visa or Hallmark commercials, yelling at the boys (who deserve it, mostly), zapping fatigue, cramps bad enough to bring flashbacks of labor... and loss of blood, endometrial tissue, and fluid so great, I have a hard time keeping up.

No wonder men are so afraid of women and their uterine cycles.  The desert trio of myths are based on man's need to put a kebosh on any power the mysterious free bleeding creature that is woman, may hold.

The great power is for reproduction, I know, but I don't really want to do that again. I'm forty, can't you slow it up a bit? Just a little?