Leda's
Granddaughter
Sacrifice
me for a wind-change,
a new idea. Farrow your novel
from this seminal plowing of me,
our mattress hard beneath my back
my hair dripping past the edge.
Blood
entire over us, a pounding
imagined eruption, true engorgement.
Wanting this birth, craving thick
lively ravishment, the history
and legend of being used.
Stretched
upon this altar,
tasting salt from a primordial pillar
that weeps, but not as I do,
not as women before me wept
as each of them came to this place.
All of us
Iphigenia, guilty
of nothing save being father's
daughters. Each of us terrified,
horizontal, bleeding with men's
ominous lust to be remembered.
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