is the shop on G where you sell your baubled
do-rags, huge yellow hoops, leather jackets
slumping with time, trading them for new
eccentricities: two steel robots for the house,
the male’s penis a thick nail pointing up.
It’s your source for feathers: wear on ears,
in hair, adorn that cursed denim vest
that frees your armpit tufts.
At fourteen, I cringe at men hooting
when you mow the lawn, at how you’re
46 & all my friends swarm you,
some fire they still talk about.
More than just black-snake hair, a fury.
I am afraid. I see I will enter it.
(You will be ashes then.)
I see it will enter me.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 4.
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