The non-existence
of Miriam’s daisies
left only nonremoveable parts.
Her cats were trees
islands of proficiency.

Stronger than Wicca
more patient than the likeness
of winters
spores of moss grow
in her flowerless garden.

On beaches, in swimming pools,
showers and changing rooms
she played out
the hetro-homo confrontation
pussyfooting about with mirrors.

Her smile was open,
honest, sexually inviting.

Framing the disequilibrium of women
she said: I will not regret what I am
only your hostility to it.