Photograph by Amy Hart
Ovaries. Lust. Refrigerators.
If only they all provided
a warning shot––two sharp,
insistent beeps, always at 3
in the morning––there is no fire
but time has run out on you.
You should’ve started a family
before you were comfortable.
Your doctor said, You will always
need more space, more money.
There is no perfect time.
He was an expert, just like
the repairman who advised
not to hire him. Buy new.
The dream reminders that once
you trusted chemistry to draw
your mouth to another, your lips
to neck, chest, nest
slow and fade, disconnecting
in a muted whine.
Jennifer Campbell: Born and raised near Buffalo, NY, place features strongly in all my work. Family, friends, husband and son, and two senior cats ground me to my home. My poems are often about letting go, a concept informed by decades of yoga and meditation, along with meeting and preparing literally thousands of students throughout my college teaching career. Instagram: jennifercpoet