Childless

The future soaked each month into white fiber
my shed potential leaves a rust-red stain

this womb as useless as an empty basket
unfilled by stars or moonlight, unbitten fruit

I didn't come here to be a vessel, nor
forge the next sad link in a chain of gin fumes

and broken furniture. No one will preserve
my photographs, collect my garnet ring, my

necklace of bottle caps. But neither will
I trample the soft petals of children, bruise

their unformed bodies with my fingerprints. Let
red eggs swirl in a porcelain bowl, wash out

to sea. Let that future burn, let white ash fly
into white sky. Let new myth begin with me.

Copyright © 2003 Terry Wolverton All rights reserved
from Embers
Red Hen Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission