A medieval remedy for divorce
If they lock me in a room with him.
If they tell me I have six weeks with the bastard.
If I have to share the table, bed, pillow, lamp, food with him,
hear him chewing his meat like a sheep chews hay,
smell him even if we're at opposite ends of this dismal
room the size of a cupboard, screw him because the bishop
said it's better than divorce.
Did I ask to be this girl here in this town with this man?
He looks at me and sees young skin you can bend over
the trough or the small chair where the wool waits
to be spun and smells of oil and that smell is always
in my nostrils as he pulls up my skirts. I have no idea
why God put the gold of dandelions in this world.
I will take the small axe beside the wood pile and cut
off his member to a stump the smell of metal in the warm
room the scent of rain in the street as if life was starting
from the day of birth and this time I was male
and thoughts could run straight from brain to tongue
on and on and on and still it is a gospel of sorts.
The day lingers on the hair of that boy like meadow rue
that boy who is this girl who has breasts like river stones.