were women to listen
to the murmurs of men
perhaps the swinging stalls
in our guts could
become shelves
lined with books
lined with lines
which do not cause lines
around our eyes but
rather the line across
the hand which says
her life lingered in love, not
she died of love and

were women to listen
to the murmurs of men
perhaps the marvelous
compartments of a woman's heart
filled with balloons
which inflate themselves
and never burst in fits
of ecstatic rushes
maybe the compartments
would melt from the
eery resemblance of a
bathroom stall and
more
much much more
like
chandelier prisms.

do you hear the
glass whispering?