By Rhiannon McGavin
Kneeling on the bedroom floor I’m circled
by a thousand glasses full to the lips
with how I’ve taken birth control: hot mulled
cider, pineapple juice, Manischewitz,
the tap waters of various countries
cupped in my hands, sips from what the lovers
are having tonight, dregs of black tea leaves,
spinach smoothies, red slushies, whatever’s
in reach around 9 to swallow the pills
easy and pink as a sunset. I’ve known
what I want but forgot where the shame is.
I’ll take it with the dry salt of my own
spit if I must, head thrown back with a real
laugh like an orgasm, undeniable.