her
heart has woven words onto blank screens
her fingers have touched lace, but also dirt and motor oil
her
legs have walked in forests, on street pavement, over dead bodies
her
cheeks are sometimes rosy soft and sometimes angry
her
breasts have served to nurse a baby and to push the wind away.
she
is a human and a woman person.
because
she is a woman person it seems:
clean dishes would be poetry to her
soft
carpets without dust would make her heart beat faster
transparent, spotless windows would delight her
dreams of perfect curtains would be perfect dreams for her
a glistening bathtub, scrubbed and sterilized, would prove her personhood
because
she is a human person it seems:
the right job at the right time would be right for her
workouts
and car insurance would inspire her
an iq of 125 would seem appropriate for her
243
dollars each year to a proper charity of her choice would show her social
conscience
the news at 6 and self help books at 10 o'clock would prove her modern womanhood
but
then, throughout the day:
her heart bursts into tears when she listens to bob marley
she prays to dandelions when nobody sees her
she dreams of hunting prey and killing it with knife
she wants to make love to five men in one day and
have a tiger for a pet.
she
also likes doing needlepoint.
and cooking juicy meals.
and passing soft hands over young people's cheeks.
she
loves to turn the pages of a book.
her
heart has woven words onto blank screens
her fingers have touched lace, but also dirt and motor oil
her
legs have walked in forests, on street pavement, over dead bodies
her
cheeks are sometimes rosy soft and sometimes angry
her
breasts have served to nurse a baby and to push the wind away.
she
is a woman and a human and a person person.
she is a writer and a walker and a cooker and a mother and a killer and a listener
to
songs and a lover and a cleaner of bathtubs and a reader and a drinker of wine and a
digger in dirt and a
woman and a human and a person person.