I should explain.
I’m not asking for anything.
You can’t give me
a picket fence
to keep out nuclear waste,
sculptured faucets spouting
crystal clear water,
a roof to deflect missiles
and acid rain from falling on us
as we consummate our vows.
No, I’m not asking for security.

I’m not asking you to tell me
you thought of me yesterday,
you won’t love
my sister tomorrow,
you’ll have breakfast with me,
you’ll take care of me
when I get cancer,
you won’t infect me
with a lethal disease,
our children won’t be mutants
or that I won’t cry alone.

I’m not looking for a father
for my daughter.
I don’t need authority,
morality for me,
a pill to set me free,
forearms or omnipotence.
I wear a polished scarlet letter
I’ll give to my daughter
like a family treasure.
I should explain.
I’m a virgin mother.

I’m always looking for my son,
my lover,
meeting him with groping eyes
in bedrooms,
embracing him

by riverbanks,
libating him
among gravestones,
stroking the life in our bones.
I should explain.
A virgin is a woman
who never marries.

There’s no need to tell me lies.
I’m not asking for anything.
Maybe just bring
a little food for me to prepare.
Maybe just bring
a rhythm we can dance to
and offer as a prayer.
Maybe just bring
your body and soul.