One Poem
by Amy Spade
Tempered
My past self ached so for love of women
but my tongue held itself down in my throat,
against what that meant. And then from famine
I filled myself rashly, blindly, the bloat
making me dumb again. With you I name
need, classify its requisite parts, lay
out subject (I), object (you, ever tame)
and verb (love), yet have to keep schemes at bay
because you’re willing, and, by turns feral
and tempered. Your steel has been heated, cooled,
and hammered again, long before travel
to me. Could I deceive myself, be fooled
by how hard this does feel? You said, I’m yours.
Be truly mine. I’m here now, on all fours.
Originally from Detroit, Amy Spade lives and writes in Oakland, California. She holds an MFA from the University of Houston. Her largely formal poems have appeared in many journals, including Nimrod, North American Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Cottonwood—and most recently in The Gay & Lesbian Review, Plainsongs, and Salamander. More poems are forthcoming in Sinister Wisdom.