Terri Ford

Mister Hymen

Relent, says he with his cigarillos, his
splintered windshield. You fain think
he’s neat, is boss, is mustang,

yup. When he covers your north
with kisses,        oho the hymen
hies, bucolic               inland you’re tossing

edelweiss, unmown and springing. This thump
and wag hath no repose           & when, how soon, he’s

dying (says)        —So you, as
foreordained, give       in. What he broke’s
not glass, but a low grief, volcanic
and inactive years. See him run. All

of the villagers run
from heat, and you spread,
spread.

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