western ancients thought women

wet, cold, the musky dirt

seed goes into. a bit mealy but rich

like really good potting mix.

athena batted for that team, said:

killing your mother? nbd.

free matricide w/o guilt

& the disappointed furies (female) slunk back

into dank darkness (derogatory)

but who cares now?

the vestal virgins died for rome, chasity, accusation –

if a fire went out, it was everybody's business.

& what's a bit of buried-alive between gal pals?

who cares?

the delphic oracles, bad bitches,

were huffing petrochemicals anyway.

meanings of body afab

start festering, these days,

at release of pollutant pink smoke

bombs, plastic confetti, binary cakes.

the womb's wanderlust blushes, don't you know,

& baby girls are all so pretty

as if every squirming thing doesn’t have

outsized eyelashes for unknitted heads.

i so hated what they made ‘woman’

as the infection took hold, i

thought i'd try to stop being one –

anaktoria's light step & smile call me back.

but it's both & neither –

sappho's been singing for millenia

but no one fucking listens.

it doesn’t even matter about the violets;

it's irrepressible what endures.

so i'm not not,

and i'm not am

either – butler

wouldn't begrudge me that, surely,

or that my gender trouble

is a bootleg copy.