Form is Function

She steals steam after the summer rain,

rolling it off the asphalt as a carpet

she will lay in her den.

 

She was named by the tesseract

snarling in the backyard.

Instead of her period each month,

she turns blue

and Inspiration knows she is fertile.

 

You are so cuttingly engineered,

designed with impure

perpetual function in mind.

 

What does it mean that your gears shudder

torturously

at the turbid passion chewing a gash across her left hip?

Domestic Violence

She is a reluctant dreamer,

afraid of who she’ll see tonight

beneath her eyelids.

 

Outside you wait with muscles and wolves,

and a knife that only turns in the dark.

 

Your name is on a sealed record somewhere playing over and over.

Your hand is a voodoo doll.

 

Watch her bend when you close your fingers.