A woman becomes a surf,
white with innocence and then red with greed,
ringing sandy things: dust and pearls;
the treasures of certain gods on fertile shores.
See now the universe is a stillbirth
and nothing is what it used to be and
A woman has become a thing,
on a shelf, in a shop, with a dress on.
Long appendages painted with special hues
are displayed as nothing
but mannequins for rings and tattoos,
in bulletproof glass cases, price tags
dangling like ripe plums from frozen trees.
They hold their selves in the cold of night
and worry their lengthy eyelids
when the tears do not fall right.
Smoky nails and blunt teeth
chipped with nicotine breath and alcohol thirst
are allowed to worry powdered buttocks;
maybe fake, maybe real, maybe
squeezed between a man and bed
with nappy pins downside up,
Maybe dripping unborn children, calling
hungry bodies their home and
the earth becomes a silent womb.
Iron grey glory then sings to the shore,
the same shore once filled with treasures, then sings
to the savannas and the seas and never returns.
And when all is silent and soft nubile lips are done,
the same empty gums bereft of light and strange hues,
become fading songs like migrating birds
returning to birth new nests, to warn warm wombs,
to storm strong men and tell the universe
of flaccid breasts resting on broken shores.
For women who have become objects.