I am of age.

The air is fecund  with voices spitting clay,

rendering my flesh palpable for fingerprints.

 

My waist is slight, you can hold me like a glass,

drink me, for I make you tall.

My insides are esoteric and I know.

 

I am part woman and part fable;

every movement you mark is a moral

but it finds a lie on me.

 

I mate with fevers, blind and with

custom, I get sick for you

and you rest, reassured,

 

like a cigar. I am mad. You married me

to forget me and lean,

draping your assets in the pallor of limbs

 

That excite you anywhere but here.

All women should love you –

That’s why they are born.