7 of Cups
talk empty
in gather,
in social bureaucracies
of dissected distractions
we are ants
on the scalp
of a schizophrenic
we will trample
over anything
to find the bone
with the most meat
we descend into the earth
as we wrinkle and wane,
a moon body
of bumps and craters
old eruptions
dyslexic in its folding
in young skin,
we take fish out of water
just to taste its gasp
threading with its last light
we use everything we can
to forget
the reality of this miracle of lungs and love
when you whisper,
you disturb sleep
when you cover up,
you are the original sin
flesh is a coffin
words are your limbs
Notes of a Dirty Young Woman 