Sterility’s Dead


have it on good authority
that the plum tree is pregnant
and so is the mighty oak at the
far end of the garden.
Watch with me their nine month,
See the fruit come to splendor,
leaves to color,
and then doctor gravity, doctor wind,
will jerk the babies free,
slap their backs for good measure.

And yes, the fence is with child,
even where it sags,
and 1 speak for the garden when I say
a flower is due any day now.
Scratch a newspaper and births pop up.
Even songs on the radio
just can’t help being fertile.
Listen to that chorus
and tell me that drum kicks
not an umbilical cord snapping.

Feel your stomach if you will
but remember the kettle will
soon hiss steam child,
the coffee pour from deep inside
its egg sac.
In this world, nothing’s sterile for long.
I kiss you, step away.
See, you just had me.

* * * * *

John Grey is an Australian born poet who works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Poem, Caveat Lector, Prism International and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”, he has work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Pinyon. His other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

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