The little girl stands on a knife-covered ledge, Dancing till blood starts to drip from its edge.She’s been licking her wounds since the first time she bled, Getting judged for each thought she commits in her head. She’s been starving herself since she started to eat, Connecting the dots of her heart’s every beat.She’s been […]
Ah wunner if the Romans / wha cam up wi sewage systems / wir derogatit, torn doon / an met wi sic resistance /
You will not need kindling.
I think I’ll go up quick
as summer timber, my anger
big and dry as a plantation
that dreams of being paper:
Was she then a lover,
a wife, a sister, cousin, aunt?
Was she laid there in jest,
as a punishment, as an example?
The staves steady under foot; she knows which to
avoid. A creature of habit, the kettle warms.
Becoming used to his stare, she turned
her own gaze back to the depth of soil
before bedrock, that one boggy corner,
the tricky curves and angles of slopes
I was looking, in vain, for the newspaper article
that told our story among the deluge of pages
on the thousands of women of similar fates.
Yes, I agreed to perform the abortion.
The girl was under unusual strain.
We knew, this thing at least we knew, – the worth
Of life: this was our secret learned at birth.
That’s me in the painting.
/ My face smooth and brow clear,
/ for I do not worry over
/ what I cannot see.
I saw you from my window, Margaret.
/ I was watching the seagulls swooping the sky.
/ The seagulls, I was telling myself, know
/ today…
Certain women. And some young boys.
/ Women with some uncertainties
/ but something they knew about
/ that made them need to say something.
/ Two of…
