By Clive Matson
Gut, little animal, I’ve got a leash round your head, just puckered.
We’ll let out a smooth, round, long one at a toilet — uh — cut off clean.
Hole in the bucket. I get a hernia, out my lower belly
bulges a pouch of intestines, sighing and gurgling.
Go to pee the next morning and my curly pubes are stuck
together with globs of pale glue. From me or from her?
I didn’t want this bath, but Mom plopped me in. Here I am, splashing around so happily now, I don’t want out. Getting wrinklier and wrinklier.
This poem is from The Feminist Toilet #1. To go back and read more, click here.
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