A poem about my uterus

I carry an empty gourd
where inherent purpose should be.
It rattles dry seeds to my arrhythmic pace,
inside its thin shell, yellow-white, bubbly-brown.
I fill it with froth from the jealous sea,
my cave of stone where late blossoms sleep.

D'Anjou

I'm in bed with a pear,
freckled, green, and too cold for my teeth,
fragrant, sweet, and bottom heavy
just like me.

It sits like a gift,
contours concaving egg-crate foam.
Little pear holds its chill.
Sexy fruit blushes;

when it's warm I'll eat it,
regretting the canine tears into its skin,
juice-drip down my chin.
Little pear exists to be consumed.

I'm changing things.

The frail fringe is encased with ice,
chiming tinkles of glass.
Mill it over,
sifting out habit dust and nuisance particles,
tiny crystals of things you don't want to carry anymore.
They powder off like snow from a tugged branch.

He gravitated to me because he didn't believe in god. Because he could blaspheme in two languages. Because I am sacrilege.