Satori Good

Ownership

My house is dry & warm with
white adobe corners & sloped
marble floors. Her inner walls
flush & thrum like cello strings.

My house is all legs & shoulders.
Bamboo pillars grow through
windows & open her up & suck
her dry.

My house is mine & other houses flirt.
They lower their shutter eyes, yield
stones that fit like hearts in hands,
paint their skins white. The houses

think they can be anything but what
they are. Women, boats, mansions.
I tell bamboo the houses do not know
their place.

Bamboo says let me show you pleasure.
The pillars fill me up. I see my house
regal & still & hollow. How often
I accuse her of my own desires.

How often she welcomes me inside
overgrown & satisfied, recognizes
subtle notes of earth, turns to bamboo
& smiles.

 

Conception

This poem is a green balloon
held by two children

One has mascara on her lips
                           I am that one

the second is a waxing moon
I love unconditionally
on the condition you love me

I dreamed I was pregnant
with this poem
it grew for seventy weeks
We named it together

                                    you said
how many women do you think
own charcoal grills

I said at least ten, can I borrow
a tampon

You said how many women
do you think are buried
wearing tampons

I said

what kind of dirt do you
want for your grave

Why do children tell the moon
goodnight

What gender is a poem

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Satori is a cat parent and speculative writer from Lawrence, Kansas. Their work appears (or is forthcoming) in the Baffler, M E N A C E, Waffle Fried, and elsewhere; they were recently named a finalist in fugue’s prose contest. They are (according to reliable sources) an MFA candidate at George Mason University and Editor in Chief of the intersectional feminist journal So to Speak. satorigood.com