For some years I could write nothing but words. Now it seems even that has been blotted out of me with the same white rag that soaped the expo scrawls out of my mother’s mothers so I could be a girl and not a woman for what 17 years color was allotted me.
For some days I have found no grief large enough
to anchor my body out from bed and write a poem. But today
clouds float upon the sunlight, the foam cresting a blue bowl of whole yogurt,
with contrails snipping a white scar of cleanliness amidst gray eyelid-fog.
So yellow the sun, this time I feel no need to chain it
to my wrists and stop it, so this time like all others
for a thousand nights I let it flicker away from me, but this time
for the first time in a thousand nights I did not waste my unruptured
tendons trying to save
what color was left.
I let it leave me
like everyone else.
Like even the blood sheets where soft-wrapped my ovaries dream, counting months toward a soon when I will stoop to catch the tears of a new crystal girl in the crusted bowls of my archaic hands. Like even the words of this poem clinging to commas and nexts. Words, like my beauty one evening I simply stand them up –
Image credits in order of appearance:
By Agnes Weinrich (la-img.com) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons