my mirror lives in my bones
i see her when i bleed
in the ages between fleeing wars and ditching dolls
she flew home to me
like figures made of wax and wire
we were sculpted in revision
wore the same braids before our mothers carried knives
before my curls came in
there is no mythologized ballad
or tale i could siren to make her hear
she will plan her wedding with a man
who lets her wear his skin
I am not equipped enough to tell right
from wrong but i
warmed her into a furnace then wrung her back
she gave me a poppy once to dry my eyes
I have no place to hold pitchforks to anyone’s words
but she’ll have a red bouquet when the time comes
regression showed up like pomegranate molasses
stuck underneath my finger nails
heightened awareness for heightened expectation
i stopped expecting an invitation
in white and gold, i can see her guarding the floor
and time how long each guest will dance for
Artwork courtesy of our featured artist Ernest Williamson III, PhD
