poem

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she wants to know about the wings we hide.
she wants to know if there is blood involved.

(her question is a speculum)

-


she asks questions.
the whole world goes

black and white
like a photograph,

like a Victorian.


-


once a month i find
blackberries on the inside.


-


when i'm thirsty, i drink my milk
straight from the gallon jug.
let it spill across
my face. my entire life
trying to suckle, stains
reaching down the front of my shirt.


-


she asks questions.
i want to take my clothes off.

show her
the Daughter Body.

hair growling
at her rosy hope. her

misty concern.


-


thin lines etched in white
across skin stretched too hard
around and across
new hips during puberty.

the marks i hide.
the marks i am ashamed of. surfaces
i know are ugly.


-


she asks questions.

when i'm sad, i can't keep the wings hidden.


-


there is blood and yellow
milk stains. accidents
drying toward black.

i wash and wash and once
a month i find
blackberries crushed

on the bread of my thighs.








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