Daughter’s of eve.
I have looked and I have seen
The breakfast you have brought to your men
The ugly millionaires you have married
the married business man you met on the ferry
The sad younger man at the bar
The customer whose eyes you couldn’t see though his cigar
I saw you trying to fit into his house
But the door was so small
So small
And you couldn’t fit.
Not with you and what he called, “big-*** hips”
So you go in the French doors in the back
That makes you feel like the eggs you brought him in the morning
Weak and runnier than their yolk sac
The men that first held you like the last orange on the
Last tree in the last garden of the world
Then slowly squeezed out all your juice
Right onto his lapping tongue
Because it turns out he wasn’t hungry just thirsty
And your skin was just a cup that held some juice
To quench his thirst
And wasn’t it worst when you first burst
Into tears over than man
Tears too heavy too many and too hot
To see anything else
To parallel park to leave your mark
On something new to write or speak
To dream or to think
To work out math problems on the board
To not question your man as your lord
I still I hope that your words will carry more weight than
Than number between your feet on the scale
That you will not let your grades drop lower
Than the ******* on your chest
Held high in cups you wish were
higher up in the alphabet than the letter
C.
So why can’t you see.
Why can’t you be
An A.
An a women student mother mentor
A daughter of eve
Who shouldn’t still have to pay
For the way the garden ended but in a pear-shape

The anvil sky—
The sky that presses its weight down
Heavy against the earth
Compacting the old snow of winter
Dense and thick and complete
So tight the snow warms against itself
It melts.
Only for the anvil’s cold metal to
Freeze the snow to ice.
Locking in the roots of spring
Behind dirt cast bars under
Ice clear windows.
Far up in the anvil sky
There are tiny lights like nails
Hotter than the icy metal
Burning through and warming up—
Small spots like holes in snow
Where daises will surely grow.

A thin black eye lash on my sweater
One of the dark cloaked guardians
That stand so close together in line
and puff out their thickened chests
To guard my fragile blue eyes.
Their bodies drawn in tight like curtains.
But it seems the weakest
Link has fallen off its post
Not as mighty, or as fit as the other
Bristles that still remain.
Why is this the one I am to wish on?
The feeble pray of the huffing wind.
The unfit shepherd who let my
Sheepish eyes be eaten by wolfs
I pick it up between my thumb and finger
Place it in my palm and
I would tell it, but in a whisper
My wish
And I would latch it on tight
And as I blew it away with
Pursed lips and eyes closed shut
And I think that perhaps a lighter
Lash will carry my wish further to you
Than the stronger ones I have plucked out
And wished on Before.
That it will not be weighed down
By its own girth as my wish is already heavy
Enough to hold
And then perhaps my wish on a lash
Will find its way to your lap
And it will sit there in my place
And tell you in the things that my voice
Cannot scream from here that
No one has ever wanted anything more than
I want you.

We were planets that collided
In a perfect black sky
Searching for similar skin to share.

Like i am not who i am.

Sometimes I think
That I eat grapes too much.
I eat them so much,
And so many that
Some fall into the fissures
Of my mind.
They burry themselves there
And there I let
Them sit.
For days,
months,
For years.
until they ferment,
Until they make me drunk
So mind drunk I think of you.
Of you and your
Intoxicating voice
One I that I can’t make out
Completely  until
I eat more grapes that
Fill my mind so full
Some slip down into my throat
And mute my voice
So that yours is the only
One I can speak in
And you always talk of making more
Wine.

I believe you should suffer in life.
To solidify it, make it solid,
Real.
Even in your sleep.
And even in your dreams
You should dream of knifes and of guns
Pointed square at your heart
The sound of the gun clocking back
The rush of the knife slicing your skin
Should be as painful and drawn out
As when you awake in the morning,
Patting your bed for liquids
Checking your sheets for the blood stains
You could have sworn would be there and
Are bewildered they aren’t.
Even in the sleep where
Your body and mind
Still let you act like a child
With your puckering lips,
Grasping fingers,
Inaudible grumbles,  
Droll dripping onto your pillow,
Should then be invaded by
Dreams of that knife and of that gun
That makes you wet the bed
Where there should be blood.