after Robert Pinsky
He’s a man, a good poet, but today I’m tired of being told what I am by men and poets. Today, I want my skin scales. I want a long, whipping tail. I’m a cold-blooded bitch is something that has been said of me. By another man. Bald. Not a poet. He was a lover once. Twice. He pulled my hair. There was a bit of blood. I never want to see you again is what I said. I want a sunlamp and a hot rock. I want claws. I want my body to store heat like a poet stores lines.
