I will not be humbled, unless by morning mass

or Mother’s platitudes over the stove. Howl and vie,

you will not have the privilege of my shame.

My arms are strong. They simply choose

not to carry you any longer,

not to wave as you sit in the dust,

and not to smooth the dirt over the seeds

you took pains to set just beneath consciousness.

Let jackdaws peck them like wet skittles

and melt their insides with your bitterness.

The world may have wronged you,

but no person can be your recompense,

and no worthy woman your convert.

Open yourself to grace,

or sit and rankle with the birds’ bones.