There is a native valley 
Below the hardness that hems 
With dreams of manipulated lines 
And an innate ability to threaten 
The serenade of a branched and rooted air of article
That returns my riven face 
To the exasperated wait for a reflection
In the tinted murk of glass

I am an ugly woman.

I press my sex into the effete lips of Spring
Enveloped in the lies I tell comfort
When the drawn cry 
Becomes the suffocating fritter of wounds 
And I move in the calm reverse of retinal sting 
With a distended distress 
That bites too hard to bare enamel cots 
All while purging my agitated recesses
Sandbagging the wells and barb wire along my lashes

I am a crying woman. 

There is a keening that gives chase 
To the ingenuity of distorted response 
That enters the alcove of my half cleft and winded torso 
As the pregnancy of conceit 
Burdens my breast bone
Begging for the ablution that is no more than song 
That is no more than a harrowing exchange in appearance
But I am breached 
And cannot touch the identity in the flowerbed of my bell

I am not a woman.  

My sifted root and gut are beseeching 
With a frantic audaciousness 
To the caress the spit of my weeping petition 
In the crisscrossing patterns that kiss the reproach 
When brandishing my effeminate organs 
Without the harness of repudiation 
The fight and scratch of lace 
Moves inside me and I drip like coupled brine 
I am certain this is the flaw of perception

I am a blind woman.

Interrogating the grammar of vanity 
Is a sophisticated betrayal 
As the narrative of dandelions do not turn gray 
In the ranked teeth of my recycled shadow
And hidden wears so intrusively 
In the exposed hyper extended position 
Of the tarnished locker of womb 
I wear myself thick without grace 
And I cannot find the speech of beauty 

I am a nameless woman.