Suck on the seed of the pomegranate
I don’t know if I am
a summer talisman.
That’s all my wife-beater.
That’s all my chest a-pump,
my heart its own heart over its
own blood.
You sit with me
and we watch the result, right?
It’s foolish to talk about this,
floods and this.
The mullah of summer
is muttering about god and the clitoris.
I believe in it—like a factory.
The metic blue, the eye-shadow, so much
to work on.
I need a protective sling
over my shoulder blade,
a clasp/cover-me-up.
I need to be put out back
with the garbage.