Becoming (A Woman)


Every day I go naked into the day without mirror
awakening to paint myself on buildings with supplies I’ve foraged.
She’s a grass-stain Mona on painted concrete,
a muddy grimace on a clean glass pane.

Rain comes and sweeps me away.
I will return in the morning
to sculp a new curved mound in the fallen hillside
one I have yet to see,
though here she is before me.

Pastels in my mind and flowers in your garden
I try to hide in them
but I am dirty and soon head for the river.

I look into the water with hope
it will show me the truth,
but it’s cloudy with particles of everything
I wash and begin again.

Colors come from within and begin to seep from under my fingernails
I consider this pinnacle revolutionary,
I’m accomplished maybe,
or beginning to fall apart.

I dot the rocks and drip on leaves on my way; the trail to her.
I realize now I must not be free
while searching so diligently.

Colors come from my eyes now
and from the sky.
I’ve lost my sense of where to go
immersed in it all, becoming one
thick painted mess of a woman.

I beat the ground, a drum and an embrace-
She echoes on the off-beat,
swallows and pushes me away, takes me in.
Pulling the sun from behind the clouds,
she’s conjuring the warmth again.
The colors go back home and I know now
I’ve not been quite-so-lost.

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