The Melancholy of Mechagirl

every cultivated thing,

skin and sewing and lavender bed together.

See how tall he stands.

See how gentle his voice.

See how his hands on me never cut.

Then give it back,

I need it,

my pearl

which is not a pearl.

I do not want your shape.

Let me go back

I want to go back.

But you keep it by you,

pretty jeweled thing,

it adorns you as I did not.

The heat of you

warms it like an egg.

I am cold in this evening of blue chastenings,

I haunt your garden,

your raspberry rows,

your squash blossoms,

a naked wastrel,

flat teeth chattering.

I hold one arm out to you,

clung with snail-tracked ruin,

keep one over my breasts,

which you taught to be modest.

As the moon comes up

like a pearl,

but not a pearl,