Herstory She has a mouth on her,that woman down the streetwith the magpie eyesand the skin that shrinks away from touch.She's a firework,that woman with the ramrod spine:she says she doesn't need a manand two joined hands at the altarare two hands wrapped in chains.They murmur about her, those women up the road -in the grocery, at the bank -painting whispered targets on her turned back. They are caged birds, she says:silent slaves in their own homestucking helpless husbands into bedand wiping liquor-stained kissesfrom their lips.She lives outside of their boxes,that woman with warnings splashed over her skin.She
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