Your body has known all the errors of their bodies.
Your silence, after all, is full of speech.
Having surveyed the fatal craft of men’s art—
Generals who cut your hair of fictive snakes
Painters who soak your eyes in vats of blue
Studs who slip into your mouth strange fruits
Stockbrokers who eat your breasts raw
Fathers who spread your thighs with the imperial dick
Priests who bleed your knees of cool nepenthe
Husbands who shoe your feet with diamond chains—
You drag your solitude into evening cathedrals
beading prayers into knots of silences/sighs
[She, who books a flight for Erehwon
She, who scrubs away venereal kisses at dawn
She, who knits the quilt of her sisterhood…]

O “After so much weeping, you must eat.”
& delivered onto a catafalque of soft, firm hands
Strangely, healingly flowing, river of hair,
into your arms
Gently, softly you lie down on a blanket of wounds
that caresses your scars
Sink your teeth into amazonic fruits,
Then naked to the waters go cleansing your body
of tears/spittle/lice.

Your body knows now the rebellion of your spleen
[You partake of the kindred feast, after so much weeping]

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