I am that woman.
It’s taken 20 years,
But I have become her.
A question mark.
A beginning. An ending.
A cautionary tale.
Young women, be wary,
Shelter those fertile laps.
Hide the eggs and honey.
I am Icarus, I am Medea,
Sappho, Marilyn Monroe.
My mind splits open,
Spilling pools of anxiety
And fruitful hours
Of childfree poetry.
I am sleeveless.
I can think.
I can regret everything.
(Marie
how much
I would have loved you.)
No one calls me Mother.
I will die a daughter.
My blood ends with me,
My belly an empty bowl,
Lover rubbing my shoulders,
Dogs at my feet.
I am the one
You can’t understand,
The missing puzzle-piece,
Your albatross,
Your highflying witch
Your sister.