why did you touch me there
between my fingers
“it feels like a mountain range”
well I’m very sick these days
I keep telling my friends I’m not
a liberal not a conservative
what are you then?
I can be traced back to the tiny dancer
Flaubert loved; he was pedestrian
other canonical men knew my mother
painted her so wrong did not know
how a nose like hers really looked in profile
I was seven then eight then nine then dead
what I would give to not be read
as a means of instruction
when did I agree to be a textbook
for you and your whole dumb family
my people make history if they just stay alive
well anything is easy if yr existence is wanted
admit you want me to have a function
admit you can’t imagine someone
touching you the way you touch me
you don’t like being bought or sold
and what I must tolerate
you have never
ever