When a woman asks for pleasure, she gets
an apple instead. God pretends to be
an ocean, acts as if he has no legs to walk
away from torture. His arms are a holy
topography of maleness and the promise
of a whip. Yes, woman, look away
from the whites of God’s eyes; they pretend
to be human but are absence instead.
When your lips are just ready to touch
the lips of an other, when a hand reaches
for your breast as if it were a crumbling
church, men will scream in agony
that they are not the one, that you do not live
to save them. You will love who you love,
whether it is a man with his foot on the neck
of a dove or a woman who has given up
her body to the hysteria of color.
You can love a disembodied head
and you can love a child. You can open
your legs and accept that you are
an entrance and an exit; you can stand
between these doorways without anyone
telling you to choose. My blood is not
an elegy for war or fruit. It is the foulest
language of the body; in the sun, it stinks.
God is always worriedly looking
to the west. His dead eyes lay at our feet.
He could be any animal he wants to be.
We won’t know what he is until he touches us
with his darkness. Even then we will read
the bruises he gives us as poems.