When there is occasion, I write it.
For example, now. I keep thinking
on what it is to be a feminine thing,
how others think we can be peeled
back, and how they believe they’ll
find consummate sadness beneath
whatever it is they think they’re
peeling. Women are always such
metaphors: one look at ripe fruit,
one shapely act of nature, a gully
carving its way in life with what?
Just water. A woman is understood
as an image or a series of them.
Because a man wants emphasis
and he wants to sense love with
all of the senses, to own love until
his head spins. A woman must be
a constantly changing suggestion,
a beautiful, unboring virus –
seizing you again, again.