It Occurs To Me I Am The Creative/Destructive Goddess Coatlicue

I deserve stones.

Better leave me the hell alone.

I am beseiged.

I cannot feed you.

You may not souvenir my bones,

knock on my door, camp, come in,

telephone, take my polaroid. I’m paranoid,

I tell you. Lárgensen. Scram.

Go home.

I am anomaly. Rare she who

can’t stand kids and can’t stand you.

No excellent Cordelia cordiality have I.

No coffee served in tidy cups.

No groceries in the house.

I sleep to excess,

smoke cigars,

drink. Am at my best

wandering undressed,

my fingernails dirty,

my hair a mess.

Terribly

sorry, Madame isn’t

feeling well today.

Must

Greta Garbo.

Pull an Emily:

“The soul selects her own society . . .”

Roil like Rhys’ sargasso sea.

Abiquiu a la O’Keefe.

Throw a Maria Callas.

Shut myself like a shoe.

Christ

almighty. Stand

back. Warning.

Honey,

this means

you.