At Hippocrene, I was freakshow proportions while everyone else
Was ravenous on air. It was some kind of bilious joke

When women grew slender as church spires. I refused.
Who then would give birth astride this grave? Too much

Like Mary, all glow and no gain. I was never one of them.
Not the fixed helical spinning during an improbable Lent.

I was the kingship heavy with rain,
Sturdy enough to withstand their pounding

When I am the hoist, a profane body of rudeness
Through a sea of broken and burned out bulbs.

You can be the beautiful opera I keep in a canister beside my bed.
Let me shake you awake, I’ll love you and feed you into queens.