Die for My Man

A man grows

three feet a day

in my belly


he timbers

rising good gold

wetting the soft places

where I stretch and yearn

to accommodate him,

deform myself

for his very existence.

I feel strange

in the morning—

the man towering within

has unusual say

he bends my natural


the man speaks, in his

iodine adult voice,

tells me I am too small—

so he must exit

tearing my heart on his way—

left bereft missing

my internal man

wondering if he was simply

a scam.

Broken in two

no one comes to my rescue

I’ve died for my man.



Julene Tripp Weaver is a psychotherapist and writer in Seattle, WA. Her latest poetry book, truth be bold—Serenading Life & Death in the Age of AIDS, was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Awards and won the Bisexual Book Award. Her work is online at The Seattle Review of Books, Poetry Pacific, Voices in the Wind, Antinarrative Journal; more of her writing can be found at www.julenetrippweaver.com or @trippweavepoet

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