Men watch me,
gaze at my
bare arms and lick
their lips as if I were
Susanna bathing in
electric thoughts.
Women hate me,
cut their eyes
on my shoulders
like bee stings,
wishing ill.
I brush them off.
The hub cap beneath my shirt
protects me from blank stares.
They wish me ringed
by walls, to be lady-like
in rooms filled with cheap things
braying out their prices,
urge me to be quiet,
spread my legs, burst
with want, be in constant need.
I prefer the streets,
knapsack filled with the silent dance
of trees, the course of secret
rivers washing the underbelly
of the city�s streets, the language
she-wolves speak as I pass
them gibbous as the moon.
Where all dreams end.
Today, I�ll show
one breast, exposing what
they fear. How easily it falls
open like a palm beneath
a coffee lid�s thin kiss.
They all watch in awe,
bow down to me when I reveal
a blood red garnet spinning
beneath its milky resin
howling, untamed as a coyote�s heart.