Pommelled fruit
Back up against a tree,
golden foliage shelters the curves,
freckled islands, a desert
of smooth sand, gripped by palms
soaked in the sweet, salty sweat of a summer night
squeezed of the juice from a fallen fruit.
Pretty models: the contraceptive of truth
I want some ugly (just a little, please–on the side)
but I guess we have a lot of–of makeover shows,
which just goes to show the need for:
an equal opportunity leer of leg hair and some
lips to drip of metaphors and intellectual orgasms,
a mouth to keep me masticating my pens up and down,
and some hands to remove these synthetic condos
that prevent my copulation with truth
In the case of the life of the mother
“I guarantee! or your friendship back”
he promises
lay down your problems and back IN my paper tray,
I’ll journal, write now
and male them OUT next Wednesday’s
child is full of Roe, love is murder?
choosing some
aborting hundreds of little verses
and I consented to everyone, every time,
“Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?” Trying to pick up
the paper whispers in my ear
that my pen is running up and down the page–
just like men, no commit,
my uterus expands for another and
halts its periodic ink
for my beautiful child.