the acute hurt of not knowing suffocates
(when it comes to you anyway)
because I always need to know, need the clench of control
baby boys in big boy clothes, running around, followed clouds of smoke
and punctured with septum rings ill suited for their ski slope noses
you're all bones and I worry about you only sometimes, peripheral exclusive,
only circumstantial thinking really
it reminds me of when she tried to kill herself when I was nine
and they locked her up with women who called me rosemary and touched my hair
old men swore in six languages but could not negotiate day and night
I never knew what motivated her to hate herself so
when she was everything I wanted to be
bone thin, ill and still graceful,
hollow cheeks and wise eyes so tired of the world,
like I was, too young for it
let's throw the pity party, hmm, dunce caps and creamsicle cocktails,
am I beautiful now, mother, father, classmates who skirted around invitations?
it's a foolish thing to dwell when I have grown past the confines of my clay pot, tropical and unruly
mother with her obvious femaleness,
father with his sturdy maleness,
bore a child somewhere in between
I'm sure every woman feels the echoes of maya angelou, even if they've grown tired of a preacher to the choir
yes, yes, you are a woman, as are they, though I'm not sure I will ever know what that feels like
what about audre lorde I wonder, tracy chapman, alice walker even
their voices maybe don’t waver with wisdom, but they are in the same vein
so with all this, I hope you can understand why I worry about you
and your idle thoughts as you ride your bike past my house at three in the morning
you are a vast unknown, the type that frightens and intrigues, a comfort somehow
a man (but are you really) in too plain clothes and not a mark or distinguishing alteration on his body
you were never bones, and I like that.
I like it.
I don't have to worry, or feel the weight of my own empathy on my back
like the pressure to be a woman.
