What has done you, lady? What has bitten you? What cuts you? What has ten years 
          on you? What has onwardness? What calms

Your gin brain? Your cold rage? What cruel absurdity your cut? What tender ague you 
          shamed slut, you

Wing nut, harsh lady, paradox of glut, difficult nut, you slut’s slut. Puzzle-slut puzzle-
          slut, what a peak you

Underburn a brush up, up, a tenderness of tin heart. Her art, you are all barren 
          perfection, a silent must. 

Tell me, tell me, will I grow? Will I be happy? Will I know? Tell me, tell me, will I 
          unburden I, a legion of anger born of a slim burn? 

Out of a shallow grave comes ivy. Out of a misbehave comes a placebo. Out of 
         chimera comes green velvet. Out of difficult comes a you. 

A you? What you? What of your nine lives is new? A new who? A you who? A cut 
          you? What orange glint of a you

Steams ahead like a knife? What luck cuts like a silk wife? Not a luck cut. No lucky 
         strut, you. You lost you once. We lost twice, 

You is a lost we. We are better with you. You under the yew. You ewe. You only 
          knew you, if only there could be a new you, a thicker halogen night

Shade you—do you give shade, you? Are you shade? My wrists shake thinking of 
          you. My breasts ache you

Swallow a hole where sleep glints. I am a dark clown blown. I am an umlaut in a 
          grim gown. I affirm 

My parody of power in a tight scrim under a hollow, melting elides my flayed walls, 
          anger burns  

You. No I am not your sliver, faux man. Gingerbread Man. Slippery as a fox you
          a here not here, a body with a hole.

Sina Queyras, "I am no Lady, Lazarus"