I
I envy men their facial hair.
If I had a beard,
I could stroke it;
men would think me wise.
But I'm not so lucky.
I don't have a y,
I've been double-crossed,
and well, I'm downright cross
about the whole thing,
actually.
Most of my heroes have dicks.
Femininity still doesn't
quite stick to the ribs, for me.
I sorely wear skirts,
mostly ironic, for tree climbing.
And sure, I'd scrub out
all those walls between me and boys,
those toyful laws that govern how and when;
to merely be friends,
without having to pay dividends.
II
I envy these men their crooked smiles,
taking from ripe buds
of slowformed flowers the sweetest kisses,
leaving them nectar-naked in the sun,
running gracefully from ruined gardens.
I imagine their own bodies wilting in me,
as I'm sure they see too, with those watery eyes
and tentacle hands. I'm not sure that I always
understand the appeal of my soggy tits,
my thorny lips, my trunky thighs.
Most of them do,
and with eyes wide open they devour me,
suck me whole through pupils for the swallow.
Watch my mouth move hollowly over,
and believe I would, or should be in love
if only that means coax their snakes
out of grass, or offer pieces of ass
for perusal. Where do I go for a friend?
They have mouths like hedgeclippers, and I'm
just a slippery bush that needs pruning.
III
I envy men's bodies, rising to the occasion.
Mine only flutters breezily
while I stutter pleasure in flat, flattered tones
and low moans. I don't have
the dense, thrusting intensity
that's necessary for strict attention to the act;
instead, I study their mapped faces,
running my fingers over unfamiliar trails.
Flesh like woods, or tundra, or stone;
all tell tales. I feel alone in the landscape,
Most of them do not share
my love of geography. Their eyes hood,
blank and blinked, walls of awkward
fingers painting question marks
on my breasts. I'd be a damn oak
if I could, grow large and unchanged
and impervious; unfortunately, I'm not
so oblivious, my continued
watch makes them nervous, so I
stop thinking about it, for a moment.
