You know what I don’t want to write about? Gender roles. All this and I have nothing to say. I rest my
head against the waist that once contained me as she prays for me in the mornings before high school and
hear her heartbeat and tubes gurgle. I do not believe anymore. It only hurts to believe.
Sing, my earthly Muse. You inspired me and continue to quietly stir my heart. Never a man’s pedestalic objec-
tification, but a tender rose-sweet gift I offer you again and again.
The laces tangle. Rare sentences become common between us as you lead my hand to altar. White iris-
es in sunshine.
I’ll remember when you move in me, when diamonds adorn your brow, when the air smells of sweet
wine and hope. Is my womanhood “in me”? In the crevices between my organs—I’ve always wondered what’s
inside me but not inside an organ. Maybe it’s my soul. Peel me open touch by touch and catch a glimpse of
who I really am.
Cohen was right, you know. All I ever learned from love was how to shoot somebody who outdrew
me. I’ve brought a gun to Aphrodite’s every arrow-fight. But I’ve emptied my rounds, and Yeshua still stands
with arms open for the bride I’ve had to do too many mental gymnastics to identify with.
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Cauldron Anthology