It is not the moon, I tell you.



It is these flowers



lighting the yard.







I hate them.



I hate them as I hate sex,



the man’s mouth



sealing my mouth, the man’s



paralyzing body—







and the cry that always escapes,



the low, humiliating



premise of union—







In my mind tonight



I hear the question and pursuing answer



fused in one sound



that mounts and mounts and then



is split into the old selves,



the tired antagonisms. Do you see?



We were made fools of.



And the scent of mock orange



drifts through the window.







How can I rest?



How can I be content



when there is still



that odor in the world?





