The Ecstatic Giveaway

Men drive us to suicide,
            children pull us back.
I'd have more
            If it weren't too late.

Where fertility ends,
            futility begins--
gains now gone
            in the ecstatic giveaway.

Lying in birth, lying with lovers:
            good empty;
the creative lay has become
            the sterile lie,

the me I still hold onto
            and haven't yet grown into.

Somedays I look at it differently:
            emptiness
                    as the fertile void
potent, swirling, about to
            riff again.