This is called "Woman," which you
may have all read because it was in Ironwood, which
is a good magazine, which I'd like you to buy
when the next issue comes out.
Isn't that cute?
It's just a very good poetry magazine.
"Woman."
"The adobe walls of the house clutch the noon heat
in ten fists.
And while bathing, I fan my breasts
watching the nipples harden.
I pinch them, feeling nothing but wanting to.
And shift my weight from left buttock to right.
While the waters circling my waist tightens.
As if you had commanded it.
I stand up spreading my legs apart.
Ready to release the next ribbon of blood.
All right, you want me now?
This way.
I haven't locked the door.
My swollen belly feels only its heaviness.
You would weigh less than the pain chipping away at my navel.
With an ice pick of muscle.
I can carry you.
And blood have then thin rolled down my legs.
Cupping each foot in a red stirrup.
And I am riding that invisible horse.
The same one my mother rode.
It's hungry.
It has to be fed.
The last man couldn't.
Can you?"
Excuse me.