Issue 155, Summer 2000
As a doll I flew on a plane
for a lover, convinced his fists
uncovering my blood meant: win.
I was wrong and found fixed in radiant
grasses. I was wild-caught, kept
polite in my madness. There
was a team waged to champion that
withery girl. One for trapping my arm
with velcro and band, one to inform
me hourly I had a face and that face
bid eyes and they were green.
I walked once down a darkly
orange stairwell, all flickering
lamp docile, worn out but tractable.
I am done being tractable.
This is the brave new me and I know
what I would do if I could undo
zippered backs of my own blue dresses.
What I would learn from the listing
of birdcalls. What I would say
for deserved and desire. I would
not even break to tell you.