You hide in regulated rows running
through the days of the week with
pinpoint perfection, you pretty little pills.
I rub the silver surface of your cell softly
with my thumb, listening as you shift inside.
With pleasure I pop you though
your captive foil, free now to fetter
my ovaries and clamp down on casual
conception. You clever little circle.
You give me licence to love and linger
in the embrace of a boy's arms.
We thrash and heave in the heat of our
passion, safe in the presence of your perpetual
influx of progesterone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I should think of something witty to say, but I guess it will suffice to say it is a very well written poem.