narrative feminism

*Adam, while he names *


to kill a junebug--tasseled,

bulging but glistening like marbles

spun under sea. The uselessness

of sex--the havoc we make of pleasure

then, in

tumult, find her obscenity like

water: I am what I love--





to kill a rooster: who among you

is at ease? Who thought this

saint would be unmoored like the

stones, seeds, shackles. It’s like this: hand of my

hand, marrow of my marrow, and lack

for my lust with the fruit ripe

enough to bite into flesh

of finger and ovum.

just a taste.



I am what I love--






when she unfastens morning, God is

the pear and the body-- baked,

undertow, with a face full of doves.



*“I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted

To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty”*

-Sylvia Plath


I ranked the beds by the quality of dust upon the sill--fresh, earthy, fraught.

There are only two ways of doing without.


I knew a girl convinced of her charm,

her distaste for flowers. she’d dress me in white

I’d float from a stone to a spruce

unearthing all rhyme.

--Solemnity: the broken mood of men--

the moors, their ripeness. The sea


mars tides over.

O nets:

whose fish? Whose mother?


*The Gods and Their Little Games*


Hera told Zeus to write the vows, calls

centerfold a load of cock and summons all


kings to pine. Oh Balladeer of Murder! Oh,

Beaked Myth-Maker!


Stuff your legend. Eve is returning that rib

  to Adam, but he wants

to keep the flesh of his flesh,

rattle at his own tale,

keep light fastened. Eve is unleashing


solstice, excising Cain, forgiving Jacob, letting

monarchs pollinate her blood,

make it bloom--

make it bright black.



Zeus never learned to write, Hera trots

rose hips over to Eve and they sing the

breeze for 17 minutes.


There they go, taking Babels down

brick-by-brick, unsewing bones to


frisk freedom’s feathered tail, sweating

and sunk up with swans. but you’re


crocheting chasms of

forgetting, rationing mondays into


linens, loving something

that is not me.



*Moth Song, 279*


Apprehending like suds on

Saturday car washes: ether

or rain. and what was there but unpotted

honeysuckle climbing pergola fastened

by father and dug by worms:

split and puddled,

plucked, but parsing

stones in all their performance.




A moth is an unadmired wingéd thing:

yearning for un-cottoned, bare bodies.


Sleeping, we are all moths--sheeted and

shook by our blindness. By the light nested

away. By the laughing needle awaiting our



Will they wonder how our big bodies

took flight? Will they forget us flying?

— Danielle Isbell

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