how odd, to be a woman and a girl
to wear the dresses but concern about cleavage
more than meets the eye: because.

and so we waddle for the men –
twisting straps, my petticoat drawbridge

i am over-aware of myself: know the pulse and
when to tug draperies from ‘part thighs
they only see what i am okay with,
which does not include exhaling.

i am like a drum, drumbeat
i punch my body until the purple softens
and it sounds beautiful, but incomprehensible:

me, this woman-girl and child cheeks
placed upon petals that flap
with attention, not the old storm breezes –
every april shower molded me into a flower
i rise above each season, gay spectacle

the men that believe hurricanes so enigmatic
must lust me for such a reason –
i have been through many in girlhood
that i bleed one as a woman.

because of word infidelities, the muse
april said that i am only as big as my body

and i grew, grew, grew
until my stem became caught
to where it grew no longer, a woman-child
who took the wind like salad dressing.

She fixes her hair, passing before

A ***** glass door—

They see her through pillars of paper

Coffee cups hiding difference of taste

Yet together, her change escapes them

Or remains a treasure, a harvest nourishing

Her reflection smiling with fingers trying

To ripen while reaching, to soften to smooth

To straighten and sooth something that seems

Pleasing.



So the conversation is stopped—a smile

Has arrested, through ruined paper pillars

Of empty coffee cups, broken

Through the pale reflection of her hair,

Tangled in the ***** green tint of glass, glances

Sideways,

Wondering:



Is her smile meant to pierce the door and lay naked

Invitations to rest upon the pauses, the places

Where the conversation is deserted by words?

Or to dance silently back and forth; to remain

Like a jeweled earring or hair tie on her wrist

Orbiting the rushed morning’s hushed

Reminders written alone.



Ah, but for the beating ocean nothing is broken.

Her hair, her braids, never break, never

Break like the tide, on rocks into mist to kiss

The ocean-side air

Like crystal clouds that coat the sky,

That crack and clear and come to call

A bit of blue to splinter through to split the sky’s

            Sheet of grey to shine.

She stares still.

Blank.

Searching, thinking of fixing something shining

Brushed and sharing the sun with the sky.

To say it's 2 O'clock
Feels like an insult
To 1:58
And even more of one
To 1:57
Which is often called
1:55 or 2
So much can happen in 3 minutes
I am so sorry
You are overlooked

Rain, lightning and thunder.

Let's put on some music,
curl up on the couch together
and pretend the sun's shining.