the song of the female
that when everything the most sacred and the most tense splashed
when the fingers in a rubber glove of the primarius
pushed into menstruating me reminded me
that the fingers of my ideal reader were not in me
(which I only wanted) and so the self-pity I feel
washed the humiliation and so my pride and pathos drained away
with that blood left on the corridor stretched
like a milky way, I dragged myself
as only female can and I lived convinced
that I’m not a female and that’s why from me
dropped that light of the candle that I used to grow it
in the chest for centuries on the recommendation of the wisest
(it warmed the universe and illuminated the innocent) and remained some
for sometimes a murky patch of a choked ovary under me
like fresh opaque wax as a note only that no shameful
places I don’t recognize anymore, I don’t have any premonitions anymore