Parthenogenesis

When my mother was young, she feared

she was such a good Christian girl

God might grow his new son inside her

like we plop seeds into the garden

without asking the soil its thoughts

on plumping up pumpkins & peas.

& who would believe her? Sister

of the town’s worst poison-headed

hooligans, she tried to do enough

good to make up for their transgressions:

joined a church that forbade dancing

finished her homework, said her prayers

as if a family’s fate balanced on a seesaw

& she could keep her brothers from

flinging off through the stratosphere

& never returning to her on earth

from ether’s heights. In New England

Aquarium, an anaconda has borne fruit

of only her making. No contact with males—

her body wanted a child & made one.

Wonder of wonders, a child with only her

DNA slithers into the world. I haven’t

conjured any miracles out of myself yet

in this lifetime. I fear I never will

be a witch or martyr. That I won’t be good

or bad enough to warrant progeny

or remembrance. I used to want to turn

my pain into wine stains & watercolors

but now I want it not to touch

anyone, to keep it from brushing

my love’s arm. What if all I want

is quiet, a dog at my feet, television

remote in hand, half a turkey sandwich

with light mayo & orange cheese—

who will sing for me? Often I hope

nobody will. I’d like a good long sleep.