Take that bone out of your nose and call me back.
—Rush Limbaugh
Do not rejoice in his defeat, you men. For though the world has stood up
and stopped the bastard, the bitch that bore him is in heat again.
—Bertolt Brecht
Once, as a rib-thin female mutt was trailed by a pack
of suitors, my lover said, Why do some dogs in heat
get followed and some don’t? He was referring
to cat-calls I’d received earlier that day. Months after,
I left him—he’d trail me at night until I found him lying
in the dark on my couch. And if my body is a liability,
then it’s here to stay. Rush, I’ll even pray for you
and my neighbor, who relished your show while puff-painting
shirts, “Friends don’t let friends vote Democrat.”
Now, she’s long-dead, a tumor put her to bed. Death,
sometimes, the ultimate diplomat. Still, language stays: Bastard
for the man who slides out of the birth canal. Bitch
for the woman who opens her legs for him, still,
there are no words for a woman who thinks the dogs
that mount her will comb her flea-crawled coat. That neighbor,
a born-again, reformed meth-head, said her husband
plucked her from the streets—To her, I say, nourish
the soil like diamond ore. To my ex: may the dogs of hell
follow you, forever hungry for your scent. And Rush,
take that rib out of your chest. Give it back to every girl
who thinks you had it first.