A Woman With No Gender

She’s scattered about the dark like dreams
or shoes, like memories of her mother’s nylons.
Her diamonds and her mirrors. Powders
and blushes. The scissors she used to
cut out her womanness for the final time. How the
clock smiles at her at all hours, and she
smiles back. And the nameless idea:
A baby and a summer clamming on Long Island.
Birthday cards and cards wishing her well
on a speedy recovery. The letters she wrote too.
The many versions of her story which she whispered
in the blood filled grapefruit of night. Each doing some damage
to some presumption. The white heads
of dandelions. Potted basil and thyme. Washed dishes.

And her past and future combining to make a
pink cake.