Insults, this deprecation
are drops of whisky
I lap up off the bar floor.

I am woman, I am animal,
I’m drunken waste.

But I pour a tea kettle, too,
and I can drop lavender beads
into your bubble bath.

I can really do you in.

Can’t you hear the castrati behind me?
They follow me with a cloud of high E’s forming
a halo over my head, even in
naughty parlors, bedrooms,

airplane bathrooms where
I play whore.

They sing in unison
as though to praise me
and my taking the apron off.

04/04/2006

Posted on 04/04/2006
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