Friday, September 28, 2012

You old boots
have been dragged far to bone-bleach
like a dead horse

yet only my cruel feet

you hot silver do not protest
close proximity

and the holy mother of jesus
lives between my collar bones

stares out with clear-eyed disdain or
filial love,

these jeans have stretch--

this body sweats
salt, and rose-oil, and
a decade's weariness

an old man called me
sir until I spoke

I did not mind
because I am afraid

of all the things
which my sex threatens

and of all those things
which don't discriminate.

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