Botched
Fertility Rite

Jaye Nasir

I said, Bring me the moon,

so he brought it to me wrapped
in wax paper, sticky and clean.

I said, I want you to mother me,

so he kissed me with tongue,
washed my sweaters by hand

in the bath, wrung them out with
tender fists, dried them by the gas

heater, until they smelled of spring
when it’s still asleep inside winter.

I brought home a shriveled crocus,
said, Wake up, it’s spring!

but the animals still slept
because they didn’t believe me.

They had their own ways of knowing,
They had their own ceremonies.