i am no ruth, i will not glean
in your tired fields to keep the skin of me
in one piece. i am no bethsheba, i have no pool
and no patience for the quiet
of focusing on the body as art. i am
not esther, i cannot be diplomatic, my charms
will not extend themselves to your ego.

pessimist that i am, i wait for your loss,
expectant and ready to witness
the exodus of you. if ever i could borrow
another woman's story, i would already
be planted, straight spine, long limbs
tall and ghostly as a clouded pillar of salt,
stretching out of the dirt and reaching
for a home i never owned.