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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