“I like being a woman,”
said me to God during a prayer today.
The weight of my breasts, vagina, and belly
has not become less heavy,
However, this ox’s collar
with pails of sloshing rock and water
on either side,
roosting atop my female
A new shape has broken from
in which the linear crosspiece
moves toward my body.
Nails sputter onto the ground,
wood splinters and snaps
and iron warms and cools.
The full pails christen me
as water decants and rock tumbles.
My body feels,
Yet before the verbs take precedence
Every drop and mineral ask,
I strangely and with au fait, yield.
the collar finds my grooves,
and gently frames,
and protects them
Yet before it takes precedence
The condition though,
is I must look at where each shred and shard
The touch of the wood and iron
on my body
engenders archaic librettos, fading handwriting, and familiar nausea
like a forsaken oak but,
I do not collapse.
I spread deeper
the glib, yet
these images, “Lord,”
I say, “are awkward, nonsensical, and maybe misfitted”
Gisele, Charlotte, Fidel, Rush
seem far from my wet, woodworking contraption
that is swept over and through me
revealing the glory of my female
Nevertheless, I cannot escape this pride
rushing up and through me
running down and anchoring me
I am woman, yes hear me roar, yes
and watch me love and enjoy my portions