Wednesday, September 09, 2009

you call me.

you call me a faggot.
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
in afghanistan,
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

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