In the old mythology, function followed form.
Women were made to cow, to urn, to swan—
anything to hold the sweat of blame at bay.
Swine-Aphrodite, I was formed from foam,
given a mouth large enough to hold a grown
man’s throat, a belly for his hands.
My ship is rough as a body, my body
a ship. Even pigs in space are wrapped
in purple and lace, eager to explode
inside the invisible sky of women’s work.
But when it’s time to play the music, time
to light the lights, it isn’t enough to practice
woman, you have to learn the famous parts:
Cleopatra, Marie Antoinette, Princess Leia.
Curl my hair in jelly rolls, but I will take
the cake. I’ve kissy-kissed enough frogs
to understand princess as little more than fusion
between fame and fire, as reason to break bricks
with the fat of my good hand. Unrequited,
love is still love, lust a map without a key.
All strange, terrible events are welcome.