of you like I do with my hair
in a dollop of shampoo then life
could fly like a breeze. I’d tease out the snarls
with a wide-tooth comb. Set my life
straight as a femur bone.

If I could wash myself clean
of this mess like throwing the dresses
mashed in my closet in a plastic bag
and deposit it at the Goodwill store. Then I’d
have room for the things I like more.

If I could wash myself clean
from the past, of every relationship that
didn't last./that didn't shape me into
this woman that is now erudite. I'm not
light of the weight. But I've spread it out
so it's not packed in one place.