I have given it 110% every day. I flout the reckless.
Each time I undo the bare, I bury the slights. It is a kind of slaughter.
I cannot see what other women do or don’t do.
In true time, empty still equals empty, but I consent.
I hear the bell ringing. I am aware of the crests and the falls:
those are the day rustlers and I am unafraid.
I want an index to polka through. I could choose: B or G or L
and see where the throes swell. I believe I can throw it.
One day, there will be a rushing, and one day, I will lurch forward,
sing through the cabin of me,
and pin down the madness of this world one tack at a time.
And, this sloping bite, this blood-drawn tease, this wide-combed life,
I will let it all run loose. I will excite dreams with color.
I will be trusting, even-shuffled and thirsty.
Don’t let me lose my way.
There is a thrumming I can still hear.
Here is My Offering
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