the officious uterus

"get intimate with my uterus," she says
and i'm slowly backing away towards the door,
"because it's really about You and Us;
it's true, there are no ifs, ands, or buts about it."
i can't believe she's actually saying this,
summoning post-feminist bumper-sticker wit,
trying to draw me in with cheap vaginal advertising.
she'd already knit a pink yarn uterus and airmailed it,
enclosed a hand-written card in the package -
"My heart pines for you,
                                   my no-no place bleeds for you."

once a month, every month, usually around a full moon,
she tries to pull this silliness like a tampon string
and i'm repeatedly convinced she's crazy.
so i called her the next evening and said
"sorry, darling, but i'm not ready for this
sort of commitment, not to you or your Uterus,
so i guess it's just You, not Us, for now.
but i'm still willing to be friends."  
                                                    -click-