legs little spindles of
scabs and
lone applause in the bathroom
after I fucked the last man I’ll ever

unfitting for grown women
and I’ll continue to falter:
cut my hair unevenly
to the nape of my neck without
sexuality, be  incorrect
often and
without attachment to its correction,
forget a name or condom,
spit in the faucet without washing
the spots the stream missed,
dirty nails and feet and become gay
every thirty days when I remember the fifteen years of
unnamed longing
and scream loudly at it in the parking garage when I meant to
cry or

and soften often in the wrong place,
at the wrong time
in the wrong arms
when it should have been all
(hard reprisal)
soft goddesses.

and I’ll teach my daughter how to shape shift
her way to knighthood
without compromising her breasts,
her words,
her imperfection.
she will have whatever she wants from me and
a crib and a blanket and a mobile with the planets
hung crookedly and carved into the center of Jupiter
with a butter knife and eyebrow pen the only poem
I felt strong enough never to rework:





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