I want to yell, I’m finally finished
with periods, as I wait
in a room fertile with females.

A daughter, clipboard propped
on bulbous belly, fumbles
syllables while her mother searches
a Spanish to English dictionary,
responds with honey.
The two fold together tight
as a peony ripe to rupture.
Their black hair shines
like the shells of scarabs.

When they call my name,
I rise like Aphrodite.
Daydreams of daughters
cascade down me
as I head for the portal
to the inner chambers.

-Karen George