If a Woman Wants to She Will

Place of speech layered in that film beneath the outer breath

The coating of external expression and inner labyrinth

Wandering like a Minotaur’s axe blade down in the shadow maze

Where the slightest emission will just end it all

That edge of insecurity, to want, to need, to be a being of feeling

Is but certain death

A man is not supposed to indulge in romantic flutter doves

Flapping hypotheses in feathers shed through the hallways of consideration

A trail of mites and infestation extermination roads to be obliterated

Makes a mange beard, glazed eye hobo pariah train-bound vagabond

Stare into a mirror self-asphyxiated on the derelict nature of emotive calculus

The diagnosis of attempting to decipher life in the cold numb metallic chalice

Of the mind refrigerator-like echoing a water droplet freezing before splatter

Clumped and fragmenting fractals of ice collision course sober truth on impact

That if a woman wants to spend time with a man, if circumstance forced the cancellation

Of a primary opportunity, then in the suggestion of potential alternatives she will not bypass   

She will express so as not to communicate what is otherwise impossibly blatant

That she is creating distance, a measure equivalent to truncation

An act that cannot be verified, only understood

For to ask the feminine to make a decision is but certain death

Roles learned and Fats Domino’s piano rocked into blues and rhythm

Ancient as a string played in pitch black, the young and pretty, the wizened dusk-dusted suns

Enveloped swallowed into hole-selves digesting the space created

In what a woman does not say, but infers in the eclipse nature of light

What absences of certain phrases can do to the whole damn sky

A murder of crow feathers blanketing the horizon flapping charcoal like ash rain

The time for miracles and orange inch line dawn’s is too far, ungraspable

This evening, only hours of savoring taste, morsels of how a woman reacts to living poetry

The vulnerable emotion melon ball soft squishy luscious water permeable exposure

Offered to a mouth, to a woman’s tongue from a man to see her leave the sphere to dry

Parched decomposition uneaten on a table top lingering lacquer color fading red into wan

A man can see the paleness before the paleness, the taste aching into staleness

Until the lot is parceled axe blade to the chopping block driven into the refuse heap

Rotting water-less parched and untouched in the broken levee of silence flooding

The cement nature of her distance imposed in those absent words

Betters times somewhere away, all a man can do is forget, no requests, say nothing

Just let it happen