What Men Can Do

They don’t yet know
this house has been snowed upon,
that I am coaxing a fire
from their hardened wood.

I'm trying to trace
the outline of their Adam's apples
trying to burn my fingertips
on the sun of their hairy stomachs.

I bite their calves,
I rub my nose in their armpits
until the nettles of my heart
wildly grow in the basement of their bodies,
my thick blood forming an estuary
in the drought of memory.

These men can enter me,
blasting their nuclear milk,
cat-licking my heads,
robbing the best of my death
in this house,
forever.