Friday, September 28, 2012

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

yet only my cruel feet
complain

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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