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I Try to Do the Work of Change

This morning sore all over, deadlines, a bladder blooming pain,
the emails looming. I swallowed a man last night, his life warm
inside my life, wet vowels parting the mouth, careless union.
I try to do the work of change though I’ve never prayed. If a deity
could bring relief, it would be an animal apart from man. I ground
my pelvis because I know how good I am. I slept on a broken torso
and woke whole and apart from man. The best poet who ever lived
and died, I click on her expired website. I ache from prompt and ruin,
the fragmented torso, clenched to human form, formed from stone.
I slip with the scree, loosed from—what?, I formed and formed
around a tear. At twenty-two, I spread for anyone who wanted it.
I honor nothing of tradition, just a lousy temple in which I refuse.
The singer tells us we’re the last two slowdancers. Lights alienate her.
Then, the bar, a man, an elevator, a bed. I zip my dress up, wasted, changed.

2 thoughts on “I Try to Do the Work of Change

  1. o beauty! o waste & change!

  2. This feels like my history gobsmacked

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