Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Herstory Check

Slivered eyes my
way, my walk watched and
weighted, always on a scale of thumbs.

And I cease to be myself again,
surfeited definitions like bent hands on Salvador's clock.
All you cocks figure it out,
I'll be in my vagina bubble awkwardly predicting each one of you
onto the colored lights by name
--but let me make clear:
my legs are not spread to your mock or like or silence

--toys and go home
and I dance in your brined uncertainty at everything.
Only my friends bring me to parties anymore.