“They lost their names and forgot the language of men as they lay entwined”
-Lisa Tuttle, “Wives”

I’ll give my last name
if you pull on my skintight.

I’ll marry my manliness
in the muscle of your mirror, wring

your tail into dishrag, squeeze monsoon
out of monogamy. Go ahead.

Gout my grief. Gut yourself
into a free woman like a basket

weaving itself wanton. In this city
of wicked wives, we only stone the sky

into Georgia O’Keeffes.
Like a staircase of sand, you can

no longer climb on our minds
made of millions. Our maiden lighthouse

with a kingless keeper. Sun bleaching
all sexist feasts like a skipped

stone across a knowingly
crooked coastline. If you confuse

my seaweed slicked unibrow for a siren
rendered lovesick, I’ll leave you

for the bulky woman across the street.
The one braiding sourdough buns.

A woman in rising. She won’t care
to waltz with painted faces. She’ll wear rings

on her toes, renaming every pink ceiling
a red stovetop. More like a real woman

than any woman has ever looked.
You blink twice. Leave for battle.

But I’ve already lived your future
loss. This time, my splash

does not translate to sob sob.
My musky perfume swells your hands

into sacs. Spiders swarm the floor
around your manspreading sofa.

Ten thousand eggs choose to lie there.