Bartender, my pussy is a shoebox locked up like Fort Knox.
Play that country song on the jukebox, about a girl
on death row with nowhere to go. You can do
anything, said grown-ass men like you when I grew
mountains for breasts. Tonight, I don’t need a Ouija board
to know this is one haunted-ass place. Still, I’m staying
until you shove me out. Back home, my walls nail-scratched.
Bedposts carved with so many notches, they’re whittled
down to toothpicks. I contain starving multitudes and keep
giving back. My crown droops so low I can barely see you.
Maybe it’s better this way. You remind me of that woman
in the park asked to leash her dog, who shrilled her vocal
pitch, pressed cell phone to cheek, and called the cops.
It’s hard to tell if you’re even in danger from anyone but yourself.
It’s raining. I’ve gone wishing and have to reel myself back.
The problem with letting men like you in, is you keep coming
and breaking me, again and again. Boy, it’s time you grew
up and learned to speak for yourself. My thighs thick as tree
trunks, though black elm grows up around me. You can’t
cut me off. This land is your land, this land is my land,
but Dutch Elm disease is everyone’s sickness. To say
I’m unhopeful doesn’t mean I don’t have hope. I’d like
to pass this torch, but I won’t. You’re family, like the flat
earther uncle. Every day, I stand at the estuary, wondering
if I should gently pitch in. I want to bait and feed you
to my fish. I want to cry you a river of tears. I hate you.
I love you so much I can barely stand.
