Sam Pierstorff: It Takes Balls To Have A Vasectomy

You might think it’s nuts, but for the next 72 hours,
my three children are not allowed to play with blue balls
in the house because it reminds me too much
of the great pain hidden below the equator of my belt.

The twin planets of my testicles are throbbing
from elective surgery last week when my junk
hung out on a cold operating table while the nurse,
on her lucky day, painted my parts with iodine.

And I know what you’re thinking:
It’s about time he had penis reduction surgery.
But no. Neither have I downsized my balls
from two rock solid employees to just one
despite how hard this economy can get.

The fact is, I had a vasectomy—the two wires
cut in which semen buzz and fire like bullets
through the barrel of a very long rifle.

I brew decaffeinated coffee now. Drip diet soda.
The life I had left in me is dying.

I don’t have many regrets yet, just the occasional
prick of stitches and the purpling on my scrotum
like overripe plums. But I do wish I had Band-Aids
without cartoons on them. Dora The Explorer
should never be allowed on a grown man’s testicles.

And I am sad that the frozen bag of peas resting
between my legs has melted, and for the next few days
I cannot lift my daughter. But when I do heave her
in the air so high she’ll think she can fly, I will
recognize in her round face the miracle of life
and beauty that cures any ailment—bloody or bruised.

I’m not sorry that she’ll be my only girl. I’m lucky.
Some people spend their whole lives making love
and nothing comes, but heartache and minus signs.

Let them keep trying. Let the young marry
and sow their wild oats while I shoot blanks and
plant seeds in a garden where nothing new will grow.

But look around at the fruitful trees I planted six summers ago,
the thorny blackberry bush, the fig leaves as large as human hands.
There is so much beauty left to care for and everything gets better with age—

like the ancient clusters of Thompson grapes dangling through
the trellis slats in my yard. Like me, they too are seedless
and bursting with flavor, just ask my wife who stands
at the kitchen window with a fresh glass of homemade wine,
so proud of herself for crushing my last season of grapes
and leaving my vine bare and fruitless.