Every two fortnights
the clock is set right.
I take the world’s beating and bleed permission
to nest, rage and cry that I will not supply one more man
to overpower another.
For I am the remnant
of every time my mother let it go the trickle down of the bloodline the heavy flow
of rage soaked over generations,
of anger stored in white knuckles on hold for want of privacy.
‘A room of one’s own’
becomes a luxury
when space time heir nothing belongs to me
except my cunt’s: back sewn; means-of-production: withdrawn, seized, barren, empty.
What are the male names for these?
Dirty Diana’s cyclic spell
like clockwork from hell
chimes: woman, bleeding, rise again another birth, deprived again.
It’s not life-giving-force
if it’s giving-life-forcefully.
