Evergreen

I’ve had enough of lonely women.
Sad. Miserable. Abandoned women
Whose souls float like bottles
Thrown in the sea with a message.
Enough of professional mourners.
Enough of condolence givers, companions, sisters.
Old maid and marrying types,
Eternal widows whose hearts leak and rip
Like rusty faucets.
Enough of that funeral march.
I have noting to do with you.

Enough of Mother Hubbards
And faithful wives with their eyes lowered—
The guardians of last years snows and gardens of Eden.
Enough of your herbariums and picture albums,
Dried up beavers and pressed wrinkles.

Enough of your frozen talents
Simmering with his favorite dish in a pot.
Your black liver and fried brains.
Your empty beds and waxed floors
Over which moonlight slides
Instead of Shakespeare’s beast with two backs.
I have nothing to do with you.

Enough of your big asses,
Double chins, circles under the eyes, abortions,
Diets, depilations, hairdos,
Low cut dresses, high heels.
Enough of playing footsie under the table,
The look under the eye,
Auctions and bargain sales:
Who–will–do–what–to–whom.

Enough of you aperitifs and deserts.
Young studs and sugar daddies.
Your sweet poisons,
Loved to death till death do us part,
Your Seventh Heaven that rests
On the tip of his shoes.
Your Holy mangers where he spreads his legs.
Enough of your: Our listeners request.
Your never more is an old song,
Evergreen of your late springs.
You’d give anything for a man
In the image of a helpless god,
You Adam’s rib.
I have nothing to do with you.

I’d like to be dancing on a trapeze,
Walking on high wire, taming lions.
Through a fiery hoop I’d jump
Into everyone’s throat or heart
So I can be born again in labor pains.
I’d everything the same and everything differently
With his beloved head on my belly—
As on Salome’s plate.