I think you're the death who will come disguised as a man
because death can only be a man
solitary wizened drunken
in no sense is death a woman
not even a superwoman with a perfect body sharp curvaceous
death can only be a man mature with a tarnished sex
the flower girl in me can't wait to fall into bed with him
the suicidal whale spies him far across the sea
how he sits and sips tequila slowly from a bottle a quarter full
I'm already hooked on him the man with a hangover
abandoned by other women but never delicate or sterile
with the power of darkness the taste of a broken glass
after a night of love I feel him distant like a garland around my hips
as the metis in hawaii uncoil their hair in lizard-like braids
to hatch him until he's a death's head moth
the man who's death and drinks tequila is
in my uterus pickled in jasmine
I spy him from far away and wave goodbye with a handkerchief
he descends toward me on an escalator
then lights up a firefly and burns my hair cropped short
my hair burnt for him for my manly death of a man.