You? you will know me by
the devil etched squarely on
my thigh and the red
index nail that is tracing it.
the microphone,
the mini skirt,
the high laughter,
the long legs beaded with sweat
as I saunter right in,
the three thousand women behind me.
the way I told you so first. 

if you write the book,
no men will want you.

I am at home later
wearing nothing &

eating cashews, watermelon,
sipping mint lemon water,
air conditioned.
alone and contented.
alone and chased,
chaste, Artemis.

watching it drip
from my lips
like little magic
fits of rave
& fury recorded
for posterity.

“the women”

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