On my evening walk, I am the girl
with two heads — a schizoid startled
by strangers. My heart leaps like a fish.
A boatman once told me, hate swims
down the spine and becomes a wish.
Women who elope to storm center,
grow beards and make mistakes.
I stroke my chin reflexively. The moon
drips swirls of consolations. Still my
mind is a monster of menstruations.
There is a cosmos inside of me that wants
to erupt. I picture my spleen expanding,
my kidneys shooting stars. In the lawn
outside my neighbor’s house, a rage of roses.
Their thorns like the fangs of a wolf.