Into the female collecting box we drop
our solitude and anxiety. (Sperm ends up
where it was meant to go.)
We are happy if it is accepted.
Though on some level we know (or learn
sooner or later), that they do not take it away from us
(not out of wickedness, but because
it is beyond even their capabilities).
It stays with us.

And yet…

It is almost as
we were digging a grave into the winds. A spacious one
to use a word of Celan. We sort of long
to be held together but not suffocated;
we want her to be us, at the same redeeming us from ourselves;
we want a strong stemmed plant, an un-
wavering bedrock, but also a yielding
animal flesh providing warmth.
Her embrace should
adapt to our momentary needs of the moment.
– We feel we cannot settle
for anything less, although what we can offer
in exchange is pathetically paltry:
Our solitude and anxiety
in the female collecting box…
And then (and this is better: better than trying
to mould it to words)
our shamefacedly, perchance wrathfully grateful gaze.