All the children I never had are happy,
having known only this: the joyous moment
of their coming forth--my great orgasmic O,
a bon voyage to blissful oblivion.
I drape them like an opal brooch on your chest
or cast them like pearls across your thigh and think:
no jewel of greater price has found a better
setting. Clouds floating above a lake, they drift
until you, their sky, either roll into sleep
or rise to wash yourself spotless for the dawn.