This next poem is called "The Curse."
And it's supposed to be spoken by a woman against men
who don't like women, men who are afraid of women, I guess.
It's what it's supposed to be.
"The Curse."
Because you lie there curled between the fingers
of her legs, expecting death.
Though her green eyes close, she smiles and her face flows
to the edge of the world.
Be the cold water that comes from the tap at dawn.
The sun spilled on a lawn.
Its egg broken in the dew.
Die slowly like the snow.
Fall apart in your own glue.