Corrinne Lee
White Flag
New Poems From the USA

Yeah, I hang from your nod, but these breeches
are just as fine
as yours. Said Erasmus, my book is kind of a hand dagger,
a little blade

to help you see that mortal life
is nothing but . . . perpetual war. Woe to our
lovers' combatwinner hoarding
the spoils. Aw, let's take our tincture

of lavender. Police might suspend, bishops resign!
Then, our Birnam wood
felled, abandoned to breeze licks

may be shaved into epicure sheets
of the voluptuous. I concede
that you can tear
at my waist, assemble me
on the ecstatic's shiny platter. But then, you must return
my entirety,

in all its daunting
über-smug (property dreads the thievish
because it was thieved). The lion roars,

upon spying a woman¹s flesh
between the legs, O poor lady,
who hath wounded thee
so deeply?