Why do you stay? That question chokes me. I hook a finger past lips, over teeth
-  scoop it free. It dies, loose and blue-breech on my tongue.

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t ask you. I fold legs to torso, wrap arms around them
-  tuck and tie. Make the question small, tight - then swallow.

Yes, of course.

Those were the words I found in me.

In a space filled with women, it was a chorus of memory -
and I didn’t spill so much as drip those words to floor.

Yes, of course.

I inhaled alone, then exhaled the room.

In a pause filled with men, it was a shy breath of honesty -
a fortunate few breathed in and out by themselves.

Yes, of course.
Yes, of course.

Has anyone here experienced **** or ****** assault?

Yes, of course.

The mind is a constant quarry,
the scrabbled ore of thought
gathered to furnace maw,
deveined, burned out.
Birds wheel, hook, and flurry -
drop the ash seeds that brought
rubble to flourish. Dead rock and raw,
bad teeth in pit’s open mouth,
unwanted dross tells its story –
for every bar of artful iron wrought,
an equal amount is grossly flawed,
discarded, the earth’s wracking gout –
for each cathedral built, for every Gilgamesh,
there’s **** enough to grow a leafing ash.

Drunk on Hirschorn lawn,
all the sculptures rise
& take to air, bronze over bronze.
She floats the cocked corner
of my eye, a wince under glint
of gangly windows glazed
blankly across glossy estate.
Drunk again at noon, drawn
in by hurt - she surprises
with reproval - though it spawns
first in the self-soul, first mourner
at the living funeral. O Jennie, minting
through this garden with cotton grace,
tolerate a dazed smile today, amid the statuary.