erica kaufman





“under long obedience tried”
(Milton, Paradise Lost, Book 7)


without asking the chariot
i walk towards the scene
that interests least.  be it eve
in the garden voiceless
or a moment of heterosexual
panic that necessitates it
necessary to drive joystick

how true is the Milton
you suggest.  how long
your internal construction
of warfare, your satire of the men
in the sky.  be it norm or kin structure.
hair cut or handmade satchel.
your army is no match for

my stairs.  waif.  behemoth. 
spinal amalgamation.  the metal
in my neck stronger than any
revisionist fantasy of Pocahontas. 
i am stronger than your
“perfect humanity” your arch-
angelic plates reminiscent

a moment of general anesthesia
translate to mean antithetical
to missing you o, lax inhibitor
don’t diet until decide
on a wig, guided by the want
to be cowboys, not mothers.
posthuman, not interlocutor.









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