us strap-on suffragettes with
hanging bruises
don’t lie.

we liquor sops and junk-food fops
breathe brandy into fire.

oh, suffragette. oh, sinner.
you go slumming with the saints
more often than Victoria.

and if the sweater-slick preachers
with strap-down, thump-out hearts
don’t cure us,
deep-down I doubt we’ll survive.

with our combustible parts that jostle
and rattle the walls. our howling
will rust the bars.

are they jealous? no, no,
they have had enough of our love.

instead we saddle hips with significance and think,
ooh, sister, to dance like that,
you better have a cause.

we have burnt at the heart for far too long,
and no soothsayer will redeem us.

in my sleep, i say to Him:
this is the sickness. hurt it.

if god is good
he will burn me down.