anima

 

 

 

every man has a feminine side. mine chooses atingle,

importunate allusion. my red udder, diminished,

 

flew off like the eye of a rag doll.the girl I choose

is rich, rich,

 

like grandma making biscuits without light, or the

way her phonetic eleven can look like two marks on

 

a stone counting bison. she couldn't read but, as she said,

planted by the almanac and who would question the

 

silver side of pole beans and air.the smell of feet is

dummy fire, perfume of peace; Norse god of fertility,

 

freya, befriends the bloom, fights the frenzied dancing

from the cupboard

 

from somewhere else and a lonesome,

mother! mother.

 

could any surface glossed; as suffering eats like

hostile horses the placenta of dream, a gavotte

 

waltz where your sweet hooves rise like the sun

then fall like mountain gorillas from the branch.

 

the men of the city heard it, the roar of a rose, the

tenderness of silk and seed. some mornings I am as

 

female as a magazine breeze, resting my old ear on

the breast I grew overnight and for good reason,

 

could you imagine the cinema, putting pages together like

a fresco with water based pigments

 

for my androgyne brood?