On bright days
This self she is supposed to have
where is it?
It comes mostly on bright days
when her mind is content
to be itself in her body a foot
within a shoe
with room to wriggle the toes
to take a step forward
On bright days
no shadows on the wall of the ordinary skin
that which she has always been wrapped in
broken and bound like a Chinese foot
sliced and scarred like a circumcision
a rare flower torn out at the root
that somehow survives
the self she has been promised
by all those other selves that surround her
those clean-cut sharp-edged provocations
she’s a spoon in a drawer full of knives
we all want to be knives
This self she has promised herself
a present that she has carefully wrapped
written and erased
on parchment each layer a palimpsest
a present that is yet come yet to be
yet to be opened
in a year full of Januaries of doors warped shut
bending of
beginnings disguised as endings
On bright days
when words fit more comfortably in the mouth on the tongue
when looking forward tastes more hopeful than
looking back
and what could be said could be sung
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