We must not speak now of etherized spread-
eagle evenings fading skin histories
from violent to -et to rose-risen blush.
We must not rush now past the wee hours of
waiting on fronted news, the foreplay tense,
the hot slit in a letter, the shriek.
I have never treasured the fingerprint
sonic resonances of a snore.

We shall not sever hydra stalks for fear of fresh
blooms: already one says: “mankind cannot
bear very much reality (wink here)”;
next head: “bet you were a difficult child”;
the next: “getting so drunk is a waste of
my time, the college’s time, the porter’s time,” etc.
To some other wide-eyed labor-eager chosen one
I shall leave this garden instructionless.

I will slip off the window of her lily-ridden house and
pursue the sunrise with a net of silver crunching aphids.
I will char those swatches dotted with herds of woollen teeth.
I will close your goddamn curtains for you.
Say: Thy right hand may teach thee terrible things.

So: I will anesthetize instead: crook
of the knee, bending thief, shepherd,
bend me over but I am the woman on the stairs,
I am carafe-bodied and aerial,
bound Hermione with a painted plane ride face.

Hannah Lindsey is graduating this semester so she can go back to Texas, sunshine, and her dogs. She usually writes science fiction.