11 To G.
For you, it is a famine that you are feminine
And fragile inside your fake muscles -- rather a girl
Than a man --
Playing with your doll-body, maimed by age,
Cracks cross a porcelain face; bandaging your fear
Of disintegration with a custom-made
Running away from danger
On a treadmill
In a doll house--in a doll town--on a doll island;
Making wish lists, unattached;
Bouncing with a Wall Street jump rope,
Sweat sweet with eau de cologne; speeding
In circles on your tiny Porsche pony;
Grammatically-politically-analytically correct --
But a transgressor still.