–Ovaries: from Latin: ovarium, literally egg
I’ve waited to see you for years now
but when you light up the black screen
like night-shining clouds, I become
nervous and turn to the side. In static,
sound waves form you as sand does
to shipwrecked glass. How is it
that you and I always manage to live
among radicals—spiders electric
with poison, cat who sashays indoors
after a burglary, dirt clod that morphs
into a cricket frog? A gecko scurries pink
as sticky tack along the bathroom wall.
How it twirls to an embryo in my palm.
It’s expensive to get a good look
at you, though you’re not mine
to interpret what’s wrong. If anything
it’s a hypnotic display or a book
we hurled in the road. Once we broke
a bush with a loaf of bread, thrown.
Once we broke a bush with car’s hood.
The next day its bumper was smeared
with indigo. Any woman knows how
many colors can present themselves
in blood. Something must’ve happened
to make you go rogue. We used to connect
fragments of ice crystals. We needed chaos
and carnivores. Even wolves can change
the way a river runs, so what have we done
to cast biology into anarchy and fade
from our distinctive glow? Oh, you shells
along my vertebrae and the vertebrae
of my mother, you have hidden from me
an ocean’s depth, you of lunar odes
and filament, gossamer and tendril.
I can’t see much in the dark,
but I’ve felt your whispered pull.
We all are in need of rewilding.
You don’t have to do this alone.
ANNE BARNGROVER‘s most recent poetry collection, Brazen Creature, was published with The University of Akron Press in 2018 and was a finalist for the 2019 Ohioana Award for Poetry. She is an assistant professor of English and Creative Writing at Saint Leo University, where she is on faculty in the low-residency MA program in Creative Writing, and lives in Tampa, Florida.