I let
my nails and hair grow out
I wear black turtle neck sweatshirt
My teeth crowd in
on my words
Elizabeth Taylor divorced
I re-enter the world old and slew.

Posh boss.

I am told I carry myself well
All I carry is misogyny
under nail beds
Black flesh wounds
Scratched until they bleed
Red makes them flee

I walk fast,
stomp hard
through streets I frequent
Look him square in the face
Become rooted tree