BLASPHEMY, A Poem from Hot Rain

BLASPHEMY

I think these diamonds are my very own teeth

spat out, admired. There isn’t enough war paint

or cake frosting to flush the twittering rages

that ballet the crossbow of my breasts.

It’s large. Large enough for a crux of rain,

for primroses and the coast of Africa. My womb’s

hot enough to cook Hansel and Gretel and the witch’s

cloak. It will house your wings.

Oh, sky. Shadows of these days cut

my looping hair against his wall. My profile’s

smoke. There’s a gleaming and the fall.

I’m a rumor and my breasts have swelled ¼ of an inch.