Transvestite in Trousers
My blue pants hang on their golden coat hanger, my hips
Do the clothes look good? Yes, of course. But the hangers
look like hangers. Not hips. No room for a child here
in this drought stricken abyss of sun-dried tomato,
pipless, nor flesh covered in moist curtains.
They have been seen by the sun of your eyes
and shriveled before them.
I push my womb, an empty pram, before me,
void of conception while absorbed of your lust,
blue pants held by elastic and your coat hanger
of hips, but not shoulders. Will hips overtake your waist?
The painted narrow band you oil-flecked onto me
with dexterous brush and stiff bristles to cinch,
pulled too thin by eyes that fixate too large.
I magnify before you, while your sun eyes shrivel,
the potent fertility of circling planets
that you denied to align,
seeing only you, ploughed Earth,
while Pluto circles.