Tuesday's picked it out, the three year old envelope
I had dried out for a scrapbook
quite close to rose petals in pattern and fabric.

Symphony number four sings,
he thought I was a little girl when we met but I have
felt like a *****
since birth; the difference is that my privates
came upon a sunset at age eleven
now it is unacceptable to wiggle my *** at every man I see.

God, to have my body change
with the sky. I was supposed to run to my earth-mother
tell her of how I altered the cycle of the moon
but I've waited until now,
month thirty-six of burying his fertilization in myself.

Compared to him, I am so young that
I am dead.

Any year after 1990 has been negated
letters have been written, rewrittten, unwritten in black
marsh pen and the tide of it
is filling high in his eyes. For some time now,
my hands have been on every universe
redrafting what is already supposed in my bright, red ink.  

I have been a woman for seven years
and a ***** for seventeen, but
my daybook just reaches December 2010; I took a man's
thorn so all this blood would begin to matter.