you call me words my grandmother
would not speak to her enemy.
you say, you do not deserve ripe
cheese, you cry tears that are
i see flowers on the stove,
the oven is baking sourdoughbread,
it is being made by my mother,
the woman who destroyed
her womb to heal me.
you call me a liar.
you feed me to the wolves, the lions
in their dens, and your old girlfriends
who know nothing of the suffering
or the pain of being in surgery
for forty-eight hours straight.
you call me a cunt, the words
slow and loud, drifting down from