Or,
The Bound Woman
You like my hands
tied behind my back
so my breasts jut,
so my head hangs,
so my chest aches.
You like my throat sore
so I can’t sing to you,
so I can’t declare war,
so I can’t chant magic
to release us
from each other.
Someday,
these ropes will rot.
Someday,
I will walk past you
and you will wonder why
you can’t get up
and follow me.
