The thief came and stole her ovaries.

She joined the ranks of those past-thirty,

Becoming folklore, a tale for cautious mothers:

“Could be you if you don’t wear your galoshes!”

Or, “act like a penitent—remember

What happened to her, and the price at the toll gate.”

The shoulder turned and she saw life ahead.

She did not need him, she needed Egypt.

Needed to parachute in, write a prose poem

On sphinxes and goats, or the ancient thoughts

On gynecology and telescopes.

He became no more than a cockchafer

To her, as on her coracle she

Explored the blue, and anything else she dared.