Tomb

My womb
has become a tomb
for intimacy
as he removes my
cotton  triple A.
I imagine a barbie
whose clothes I have removed
so many times.
To this day she remains
in a nightgown,
headfirst in her
pink jeep prison,
and I refrain
from telling Victoria's secret
to tweens leaving
the store.

My womb
is a tomb
for innocence;
the rattles will never
reverberate in converted carports.
Food will never
ooze through fingers,
and floors will lack
the shine of a baby wipe.
I will be forever shrouded
from mommy
and from memory.

My womb
is my tomb;
the fullness
I long desired
has hardened more
than my heart.
My feet slide across
bright white floors;
I bow down to see
a spoon oozing with food.
Shrouded in a nightgown,
I see faces miming the word
"mom."
No need for a bra anymore,
I embrace the fullness of my uterus instead,
comforted by the secret
that value can be gained
through omission.