Making Lists

For the women of Nepal who have never met a man.


I have sold every instinct
for a chance to be closer
where your pulse beats
my shoulders like a crumpled fist.

I have shaved my beard
put chains on my wrists.
I have sold every instinct.
I have burned every list.

Now there are flowers drying
in my palm like dead spiders.
There are bones whirling
inside my skull writing
a new list.

Your pulse beats closer.
I can feel it above the rattling
of bones, of shackles
of Pashupatinath’s fires
my shaven face scratching
out lists on your body.

1. I am not a man.
2. You are not a woman.
3. God is not.

Each time I burn a list
I pull back the curtain.

Each time I pull the curtain
a new list is written.