Mansplaining

Dear sir, your air of authority

leaves me lost. Eases me from

a place of ease. Contracts with

my contradictions to take from me

a place. Autopilots my autobiography.

Frightens my fright. Sighs with

my breath. Wins at my race.

Your certainty has me curtained.

Your nerve has me nervous. Your

childhood has me childlike and

your nastiness nests in my belfry

like a hawk. You are beyond

and above my slice of sky, peach

as a pie, bourbon as its pit. You are

spit and vinegar while I sour

in my bowl. You bowl me over

while I tread lightly on

my feet. You walk on water

while I sink. You witness me,

fisherman, boat on the lake,

while I struggle and burble and brittle

and drop. You wink at me and

I must relate. I close my eyes

to erase you and you are written

in my lids. A litmus test. A form

of lair. God with three days

of facial growth and an old bouquet

for a face. Soap and water for

a brain. I have no handsome

answer. I have no pillar of salt

or shoulder to look over. I have

no feather to weigh. I have no

bubble to burst. I am less

to myself, a character in a drama,

a drumbeat, a benevolence, a

blight. All parts of me say shoot

on sight. Aim for an artery

or organ. Good night.