If I Were A Woman

Can I be enigmatic, relevant
as a tiny ball of fission in the dark art of nothing?
Can I pull up all the lures and rule this aching planet
by proxy, without fumbling in ugly desperation
like an old decrepit dictator
hiding from the throng?  

Can I be a woman?

Mother or whore or star nursery run-away,
I'll peel away the subscripts;  
Name me in your poetry
only
and I'll put a fiery end
to the tiresome frontier
of a hundred men.

Stone me in old testament fists, it won't matter;
I'll laugh and lantern myself in pink stockings and garter,
shocking with blush wounds,
frosting my doe eyes
in feather
blood.  
Stretch mine out to their wildest dimensions,
flattening ovals in weepy oceans,
and I'll lay deep in the bottom of your gravity well.
Crush me together and I'll learn how to beg you
to winter my brushfire and smother my lips
to their plumbs
in a black-light
for today God is Man,
and I'm made just for
staggering

(life.)

Loom me with luscious
and vibrating fronds that open like tongues
in soft war of words.
It does not demean me
to admit
that I am arc-less, cold circuitry,
a prism in the dark,
stolid and spoiling
from unspent evolutions that crown from my skull
and spill into the void;
every night
spent alone
is a genocide.  
Will you listen when I cry for the crackling white, threaten
you with expulsion from
Armageddons and Edens?
What words will be written
if I'm not made your muse,
or made into an animal,
if there's no stretch of drum
to make song of my collapse?

From birth I've been crestfallen
by the cravings of a universe
that etherealises me
and my cruel design
with the dreamworks of a manic prayer.
And who will live with this snake-logic
stuck in their cells,
a genetic heresy that bores keyholes in the flesh
and still pass me on the streets, eying my temple, without falling
prone to the death of ideals
(and marry obsession)?  
Who will wrestle for my domain, my dominion, my ten thousand
centuries of covenants with light?
Who will grab me and calm
my scattering womb,
unfold my intentions, unleash all my magic?

Put into my own dimension, free of your tangents, of your wild, feral growth
of your love and your scorn and your purple grip,
I'll become a worthless testimonialist,
quantifying realities
of death,
weeping my finality
back into clouds.
I need
new
puncturing,
burn of your intelligence
or my will to care for what follows us
will perish in the desuetude
of wasted genesis
along with the organ
that hopes like the sun  
and those
pale,
stupid
fingers
that pile sandcastles
on beaches,
making monuments
to temporal
insubstantiality.

Don't tell me our Earth will be fine without me,
some happy divorce.
For I am its dreamer, its philosopher queen!
I'm never unnatural, like some foreign agency, terrorist of the soul
threatening my Mother with teenage suicide.  
Don't tell me I'm wicked or unbecoming,
or that I don't trundle the beautiful tragedy of every moment in my eyes;
the very memories of God.

Don't leave me alone
(with my unopened gift.)

But I will be alone. See the weight, unaccustomed, like ancient stones
etching my cheekbones with regret. I'll lay next to the fount and stare
into the darkest pitch you can cast;
I won't even remember what I was (looking) for.
Everything will be flat and motionless, with a paper ash depth.
And nothingness will happen
in the next
one hundred
trillion years,
and none of it will matter
to me (and I was all that mattered).
I will see how all promising biology is simply a talismanic organ
of a gigantic dead forever,
a nonexistent particle
floating in a bowl of inert stardust,
an enzyme for a chemical
that never left
the maker's desk
drawer.
But here I am anyway,
stalling for your time and your cold-hearted smile.
Here I am, and if anything was ever real
in this lie
of my sex
it's that I
am a half,

we are whole.