Desperately seeking
a mutually feminine way of relating
to each week and when it
comes to months I prefer not to be
called Sister Moon and associations
with lunar or lunatic circulations
and transformations drive me insane because
in the divine feminine divine doesn’t exist
and feminine cannot stand on its own
not on such thin sticks and whispers
There is nothing romantic in the female
experience except a male view on it
Cultivated as vixenes maidens tarts broads tramps
and what was that other type – o yes – the girl-next-door
how could you go wrong if one day you decided
to give up being anything real and became –
O I don’t know about that because I am
not sure what is so good about not going
wrong but I am not going anywhere
not this time of year when the dog droppings
become frozen brown beads among generally
brown beads of everything generally
Every art form entombed and enbalmed a romantic view
of something as unromantic as female experience
and I hate that I don’t know anything fundamentally wonderful
outside of that failed concept because it doesn’t match
even the chair I used to sit on but it doesn’t
matter much anymore since it is only a matter of time
It is only a matter of time