You could die for it--

love,

or refuse it altogether

and know nothing

except the urgency

of youth.  Men

have been

solitary

for ages

carrying the

stoniest of hearts

in their broad chests

while we women

begin too early

brush the brown leaves

from our shoulders, go

from bloom to fade

as soon as

we see the sunrise

We let our eyes go first

Then there is the limp lolling

of our hearts from side to side

the tongue we cut away

the blind kiss on the backlash of night

the giving giving giving of skin

As women

we blindly wish

past the climax of passion

as we vanish into a world of men

whose ribcages we were scraped from

Perhaps we are born of seeds

our essence crawling up the stem

to feed the bees

Perhaps

every flower you see

is a woman

and when

she's in bloom

and when she is blooming

red

and when her leaves are wingbeats

of green in the autumn wind

beating wings of green, yes

even as the wind tries to humiliate her

it fails because

she's in love

and only she would die for it.