When I Looked In the Pail There Were Tadpoles. Lily. Lil. I could call you a hundred different things like a cook or a working woman, a typist or an ingredient. Then, I could put you in a frittata. I could stir you in a sauce. You could simmer in my belly like the child in your womb; wet and hot and, I presume, that your legs are spaghetti. And delicious. And mine. But more mine when you choose to go. More mine when they extend from beneath you so eerily (your deference is more deferred). More mine when I call you tomorrow or the next day, or, the next day.