grenade—I mean, what if after

the loaded gun that takes two hands

to fire, I lay down the splintered broom

and the steel so cold it wets

my cheek? What if I unclench the valleys

of my fist, and lay down

the wailing baby?

Gonna burn the moon in a cast-iron skillet.

Gonna climb the men who, when they see my face, turn into stony mountains.

Gonna get out of the kitchen.

Gonna try on my nakedness like a silk kimono.

Gonna find me a lover who eats nothing but pussy.

Let the whites of my eyes roll, roll.

Gonna clench my toes.

Gonna purr beneath my own hand.

Gonna take down my hair.

Try on a crown of crow feathers.

Gonna roam the wide aisles of the peach grove, light dripping off ranches like syrup, leaves brushing the fuzz on my arms.

—You dig?—

Gonna let the juice trickle down my chin.

Gonna smear the sun like war paint across my chest.

Gonna shimmy into a pair of royal blue bell-bottoms.

Gonna trample the far-out thunderclouds, heavy in their lightness.

Watch them slink away.

Gonna grimace. Gonna grin.

Gonna lay down my sword.

Pick up the delicate eggs of my fists.

Gonna jab the face that hovered over mine.

It’s easy to find the lips, surrounded as they are in minstrel black.

Gonna bloody the head of every god, ghost, or swan who has torn into me—pried me open with its beak.

Gonna catch my breath in a hunting trap.

Gonna lean against the ropes.

Gonna break the nose of mythology.

—Goodnight John-Boy—

Gonna ice my hands in April’s stream.

Gonna scowl and scream and shepherd my hollering into a green pasture.

Gonna mend my annihilations into a white picket fence.

Gonna whip a tornado with my scarlet handkerchief.

Spin myself dizzy as a purple-lipped drunkard.

Gonna lay down, by the riverside, sticky and braless in the golden sand.

Ain’t gonna study war no more.

Ain’t gonna study war no more.

Ain’t gonna study war no more.

Diamondback

Like an organ coiled

deep inside or a lasso

of lightning and high

noon, the rattlesnake

traveled the length

of my spine, sunning itself

inside me. Then death—some

call it god—drew a diamond

on the snake’s back,

and marked my chest

with feeling. How godly

the two of us were, shaking

what was hollow.

Dirt stained

the front of my blouse.

I felt venom

rise in my ears. I rubbed myself

against a rock,

turning my skin bronze

and flawless. This is how

I became a woman,

sun slithering

across my back,

dust glittering my tongue,

the snake’s tail whirring.

After the __________, I yearned to be reckless. To smash

a glass brought first to my lips. To privilege lust over

tomorrow. To walk naked down the middle of a two-lane

road. But, too late, without my bidding, life cracked open,

rushed, openmouthed, like a panting dog whose name