"The rat I wrangled from my womb has wronged me! Bit me! Bled me! Hear a mother's cry to kill her kid! Choke the sopping monster who goes glued to Fate By my very blood! Sucked from my very teat, milk and blood both-- bitter, bitter! O Aegiesthus' ghost-- where are you? Hold my breasts and fuck me! These same breasts that came with my pubescent blood, Oresetes nuzzled-- his skull-top as soft as his pea of a nose. Unfinished he flooded into a turgid world, Torn by troubling dreams; I built him from boy to man, I And I alone touched him wonderingly, wantingly: That this star should fall from my fuckholeÖ. Damn him! Damn him! What is it to be a mom If men may treat their mothers thus? Curse him! My identity's stripped to ifs without him; without him Numbered and known as my son, my son. Hard the travail, hard the happiness, and now hard the death-time Of mothers and their motherhood. Sleepless across the groined earth I groan, Loneliness airless and endless. Not mother, but murderer My son--that damned man--proclaims me to finally be. His insistence on Justice is a sinkhole of sorrows Burying his Mommy for God. Ah, God-- No; no refuge there; no clouds, no angels, no respite For a woman torn and scorned. I'm jammed into my gender: First, pollution of the menstrual punch, then sex Wished-for in waiting, not sought in warm arousal But closeted and kept close, moldy with hoping-- Thin mystery of the singing clit mixed with sorrow-oh! Known then as Agamemnon's woman, addendum to majesty, That which cleaves and is cloven--flickeringly split in loving-- His arms the margins of my seacoast--no more, no less. And no woman knows another; slakers and takers of the defining phallus-- Competitive finessers of the clamping circumstance. Came Helen, and away went our hairy thousands, All the wood echoing like a troubled drum. Men marching into the sea! Seaborne, sea-torn, So many with no fluff on their chins, little wrigglers. War-widow I was then, alone as a lion, Stalking the beaches at dawn, clubbed and stunned By the night menaces; the sins of the dreamless hours, My mind a shifty shuttle on no holy loom. What was I in this absence of passions? Unkicked, unlicked. No nobility rolled, lucid and lovely, from my hurt hollows. I was uncoiled and void; knowingless, dirty, and numb."