The New Age Woman

In the slaughterhouse of men, knives carve orchids, and the soup bubbles red with singing tongues. The chef-woman with a spine of snakes unzips the horizon like a blood-red wedding dress and catapults into the new age. She eats pig-men for breakfast, blood dribbling down her chin like molten iron; she savors them so sweet. Her patriarchy is papier-mâché and stuffed with entrails and melted rain. Her hair is writhing like anemones, and her laughter births new earths from barked bone. Her eyes glitter with broken glass, and she will not hesitate to bite. Under her nails, there is nothing but soot and the ash of the torn-down statues of great men; under her tongue, there are teeth as sharp as a great white's, and in her pockets are dreams of matriarchs and arteries of slain beasts. With every stride she takes, the earth rumbles an extra heartbeat and the sky weeps Zeus's ichor and Aphrodite's milk.