I have a mallet, I’m smashing my uterus into dust,
I’m dried up, I’m chili powder.
I’m a lounging courtesan in a painting, surface cracked,
The flakes expose a dry, dry canvas.
My circling curves glow pink under shadows, the red light ebbs
And grows from inside, amid hip joints,
My folds peeled back and pinned, pulmonary and porous.
My diagram drawn on the divan.