There is no dog or goat that can satisfy,
This beating voice within my body.
I won’t line up to be hit on,
Or celebrate the theatrical interpretations of what once was.
You can keep your paper cards,
The token’s du jour cut in the shape of lace.
Uneven and stained with the places our lips used to be.
For love is only a verb.
And our daughters are blind and,
Waiting to be judged.
This recent genesis of actions is not enough to
Be the mechanical maiden at your door.
For I have a quick mind, and eyes that are bright.
The number 16 written in black,
And the silphium again in full bloom.
In the shape of a tired heart.