stop here, ashamed, wet behind the ears and
afraid to talk about things I surely know
nothing about. Even the mighty pen feels
weak in my hand, if I had been born
a man my arrogance would trample the
trembling girl hiding somewhere dark and
hostile, wrench open the windows, stride out
into the day all naked and foul like
some sun god waking each morning to
saturate the earth with hard, vivid light.

If I were a man I'd be chattering
mad and sweating I'd scream not
speak I'd call you a filthy no good
shit for brains whore and when my thick
fingers tangle witht he hair on the
back of your head some part of
you will agree, some part of you will
open up, bare your neck, beg
to be dissolved in the drunk sweating
unapologetic mass of my man's body
above you, unmoveable, thick as storm
clouds filling the sky when something irreversible
is about to happen.

If I were a man I'd be the snarling
raving genius people write about to
hate or love who can tell I'm
cruelty and sex all at once, I'd be
hunger and you'd be satiety, I'd be
the will the world turns for, there to
soothe the craving you never thought
would open up along you in one seam of pain,
I would be the taste of metal when you
hit your head, I'd be your mother's blood
and the grit of dirt when they bury you
and every rough familiar thing in

stop here.