to say, well, an egg only sticks around
for 12 to 24 hours
and we didn't fuck until 36 hours after
i felt the telltale cramps of ovulation
my plan b is to pretend that
a 30-minute bike ride, still tender-cunted
over jostling new orleans streets
in heady, heavy heat
to a shuttered planned parenthood is
just another saturday morning
my plan b is to fog out the memory
of the moment i relented
after the first condom came off
that wasn't replaced
my plan b is to pretend i wasn't on top,
that it wasn't my hand that guided you
my plan b is to blame myself
my plan b is to tell you to bring more condoms
my plan b is to put faith in pulling out
my plan b is to wonder how you seem to actually fuck my brains out
my plan b is to write this poem
my plan b was dispensed quietly
by a pharmacist named rhonda
she had soft brown eyes and soft brown hands
and i wanted her to take her hand and put it on mine
give it a gentle rub, and a maternal squeeze
instead she just told me it would be $47.95
i thanked her without looking her in the eye
Submitted by Cate Root
About the Author:
Cate Root is a sugar-tongued radical feminist word cunt, holding it down in 5th Ward New Orleans. She can be reached at nolariffic(at)gmail(dot)com or peep her out at www.myspace.com/pfunkem.
