My heart, the aggravated stone, the mount determined to be undisturbed,
falling from my sides like cast off robes.
Mother forgive me, I am not a demure woman.
Father forgive me I am not a son.
I have artfulness, and candor,
cheap tricks I deploy to knock the circling crows down, for all those times
I have laid naked with my belly opened, rotting in the noonday sun.
I never learned how to fold laundry.
I never learned how to “be good” to a man.
I never left this secreted island.
I’ll now ask all things to leave me be. Just leave me be.
The Four States of Matter: Liquid, gas, solid, plasma.
Points on a map; I go south. To the lightning I am summoned.
Canticles eek from the churches, I remember them, those lumbering hymns.
The drapes of my bedroom, they always hang, limp wings
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