MAN'S SHARE OF WOMAN
Allison Eir Jenks
The killer composes the church bells
they ring for her.
Chained to vows made by animals,
she takes over
She was once seized in a sexual prison.
With lines dented in her stomach
she's at her prime for a war.
Needing no companions,
her tender veins thrive on the rush.
Her coarse skin and knotted hair
hide behind a gown of prayer for better men:
Men with the blood of a woman.
Jealous gods chase her. Worshipping herself,
she lives through her shadows.
Once, she had baggy dreams,
searching for light among the crowded stars.
All those impure moments against her will,
Trenched in tears, tripped my mans obstacles.
Now, those savaged men are dead.
Proud of her sins, armed with insight,
she invents the games.
They will be marked with deep bites.
Fooled, they are tightly roped
with silk pillows under their heads.
then they are sealed with a shower of nails.
Mans share of woman is none.
She has stolen their ideas
and transformed her body
into a thick block of muscle.
She can lift them and hold them down,
like they did.
She embraces them and toys
with their thinnest flesh.
When they scream for her,
she beats them with her stick and laughs like a beast.
Reciting their faulty lines
while making lightening in their beds.
They are her food, executed
after a short lecture on table manners.
She has finally disposed her mute, weak self
and will close every guilty stare and costumed smile with her hot palms
Scoring through the mocking
of their impolite principles..
She breeds the dead in her shady towers,
invading the conquest of their birth,
their ghosts are swallowed like air.
