“You Know, They Used to Burn Women Like You at the Stake.” 

My therapist has studied the normal, and I have come up
        	wanting. Wanting. My son’s first act was to crawl to my breast.

To turn your head from milk is to die. My therapist waits for me
        	to concede. I concede, “I am not normal.”

Yesterday I stuffed ripe peach into my mouth until it ran
        	down my neck. When I drink you, I drink until

I choke, then drink more. My therapist warns, “They want you dead.”
        	By “they” he means “I.” My son leaps from the couch, expecting

to be caught. I have promised him everything. I lurch to him
        	with open arms. Despite my best efforts, his skin has white cracks

where it has broken and come together. My therapist smiles
        	and waits for me to speak, but he has already told me

how to be woman, which is silent, smiling back. Today they killed
        	a student in Bangladesh for reporting her harasser. How?

Kerosene, on the roof of her school. There is not enough silence
        	for all the women in the world to crowd inside.

My son was born, and I lost all obedience. I met you,
        	and every part of me not mother was desire.

Let them clear the forests for my pyre. Am I screaming or singing?
        	No, I am cramming my face as they journey out

with their shimmering saws. If they’re going to kill me,
        	I want my belly full.