Mary Wollstonecraft in Flight
– London, 1795

So many rivers. Blood churning
through the veins, rain’s

roped course down my wet
& unbound hair, the Thames’ cold
body below. His forked

voice licked my mortal ears
clean. Men are strange machines.

He kisses like an ancient                                   
God, his spit in my mouth a curse.
I can feel even now the heated
fury of his tongue & lips, how
they molded mine to his

design. The words I speak reduced
to birdsong & beating wing.

Cassandra’s not the only
prophetess. I will not be confined,
content to peacock & preen

my manifold eyes. These storm
soaked skirts will ballast
my fall, plumb as bridge pilings.

I have nothing
to fear from water’s mean slap.

Let my lungs be coin heavy.
Let their two ruched pouches
swell pink & full as I sink, let

Putney Bridge be my final perch