An arrangement of organs, preparing itself, hidden from view.
To perform the smallest unit of the cycle.
Like a perpetuum mobile, like a pumping heart, a pulsating rhythm.
The egg has travelled from the almond shaped fingers at the ends of the tubes, through the hollow passageways, to its first destination.
It arrives where the hollow container has grown a thick and thicker lining:
A marbled sponge, streaked, traversed by veins,
and built in vain.
This time, many times.
The lining thickens, ripens until full and juicy, full to burst.
Fecund and fertile, and saturated like dark soil.
The veiny web a pulsating trampoline for the egg.
Fat, mucous, glistening like a maggot with a shiny glaze.
And like a living creature it rolls and pulses, lush and luxuriant, ready to spawn. But it has by now the odour of the rank.
Then a contraction, a brief freezing of time.
The expulsion starts, the silver lining becomes discard.
Turns into fetid bits of dark stained tissue.
Contracting and expanding,
Contracting and discarding.
Shedding blood and drying up.
Ebb and flow.
The thick walls of the womb like an eel, a muscular band that tightens and relaxes. And inside, a cavern, the interior of a ripe fruit- only a few spasms away from want and need.
An echo chamber.
Then a gasp for oxygen sets the cycle in motion again.