I want my poems to hurt you
cut your cheeks like a Sheffield razor
make you cry like the day you punched
her bedroom wall –
she should have framed it
shown it to your mother
taken a photo with your Leica M3
and fed you the negatives while you slept
I want my poems to say no
girls will be girls
you were the one lining your stomach with Stella
she’s got a bright future –
you carry it to full-term
birth it through closed legs
in the dole queue
I want my poems to cry
dig their bones into the earth
and scream until God notices
and says sorry
sorry for witch-hunts
locker rooms
stones
And for the time she had
the shit kicked out of her
for being ‘one of those female gays’
