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Mallory Yael Seegal Headshot

Two Poems: Women Who, Like Men and A Grander Canyon

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Women who, like men

Women who, like men
Tear down walls with their fists
Who, like poets
Sleep soundly to threaded thrift, cloth
With fruit-punch powder blood sinking ships
Who, like television
Are almost nothing more than static pop
Women, who
Like sex but never know how to ask for it
Who have bite-marks scoring lines down their necks
Like leopard spots
Like a surgeon's magic marker lines

A Grander Canyon

There are hands out there that like to writhe in between
The lines etched into stone faces
Some faces falter, loose sediment flaking away in wetter climates
Never tears on faces, rock faces with dirty hands
Rain that never washes mud-caked palms
Blistered thumb-pads, writhing hands that
Never stop reading granite faces, which
Never began feeding smiles, only traces of
Moss, green
And gold and glistening, wet and
Flaking away, growing back, etched
Into cold wasted places, where
Faces are traced into jaded stones
Sediment, sentient but
Without sentiment

Now notice when your face is still of the earth but no longer your own
When the color leaves you and the leaves that covered trees, fall
In time to shade your face
No longer yours anymore, not dead but
In the ground not grounded still unsure, still
Unturned still facing one
Direction, no longer a face but
Attached somehow to what parts of your body that
Are
Still
Yours, even more
Unsure of what a body is, if
It is possible to be both man and granite, both
Blooded and cold
Still pulse but juices flowing stopped at
The neck
So heavily stoned and
Noticing in the mirror, in the bottom of ponds
In every backyard, in canyons and skeletons of skyscrapers
Traces of your face
Racing pulse under bouldering weight
Sediment, sentient but
Without sentiment