my womanly,
spacious
surrender
isn’t

leaking?
Talk about
your compromised
environments—

a façade 
plastered over
decay’s
haughty excess,

mold peeping,
fountainlike,
above the eaves.
Though overawed,

shall we 
resign to a fact?
Yes, it’s fertile.
Positively

disgorgeous.
I, too, dislike
the implications,
but have never

changed my sex.
O sighing, bloated
fundament,
I’m inclined

to believe it
when they say
you are correct
in your particulars,

that a lady
is a hot mess
of unguent 
grandeur,

a body 
whose 
inhabitant
lacks 

neat borders,
for whom
chimera
is identity.

Slack of chimney,
bronzed
and brassed,
surpassing

order
with ordure,
the fair flower
that won’t remain

planted
in your fantasy.
Sugar 
and spice

spilling
their banks,
growing
like kudzu

up the wall.
Give an inch
up to my 
tendril,

darling—
I’ll yet
have
them all.