Then God Spoke To Me And Said:

I Did Not Know The Woman I Would Be Nor That Blood Would Bloom In Me Each Month Like An Exotic Flower, Nor That Children, Two Monuments, Would Break From Between My Legs.

No One To Hate Except The Slim Fish Of Memory That Slides In And Out Of My Brain.

I Leave You, Home, When I'm Ripped From The Doorstep By Commerce Or Fate. Then I Submit To The Awful Subway Of The World.

Everyone In Me Is A Bird I Am Beating All My Wings

Craft Is A Trick You Make Up To Let You Write The Poem.