If I Were a Woman

A song came to me
and pissed me off to no end
on and on it went
demanding of me effortlessness
me with my hammer
and sickle of harmonic
expectation after a year it seemed
I shut it up finally I broke it

both its ulna and radius
its stolen crown and its club foot
and in its place I made progress
interleaving stress and rest
stepping through old landings
and fresh breathless grapevines
standing in my own wandering
until hills were no more
singing.

If I were a puppet
would I be appropriate
or say what I thought
like a jay or a woodpecker
working out the consequences
on unfamiliar territory
with beligerant rituals
being danced into mutual
boundarymaking

would you try to put
your hand up my puppet back
coaching my unruly
open-and-shut jaw
away from its predeliction
to stick out sometimes with
eyebrows raised to get across
what gets missed when men
play women.

If I were a woman
and I am saying this out of flight
from a cold hard clime
to one tropical with possible
and fruitful increments
I would wear dresses less
fitting than free and flowing
giving my insides access

to the control points
less point than passage
or conduit controlled by willful
need to seem unaffected
by the bone grunts and eye groans
that follow the women out of
concern that they might or may not
be by readiness levitated
and levitate us with them.

Sorry to bother you
with my fecund animation
my overly personal
references to what should be
known but often is not
not everyone in the kitchen
knows what’s on the menu
for tonight or the weekend

or what needs to be
out of intimate necessity
added to the list
to be bought and paid for
to be cut up for later
to be arranged on the tables
to be presented in public
in flambe’ flagrante’
like it or not.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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