WEBVTT

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This next poem is
called "The Curse."

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And it's supposed to be
spoken by a woman against men

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who don't like women, men who
are afraid of women, I guess.

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It's what it's supposed to be.

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"The Curse."

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Because you lie there
curled between the fingers

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of her legs, expecting death.

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Though her green eyes close,
she smiles and her face flows

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to the edge of the world.

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Be the cold water that
comes from the tap at dawn.

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The sun spilled on a lawn.

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Its egg broken in the dew.

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Die slowly like the snow.

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Fall apart in your own glue.