Holiday visits, I seem to stick to everything- the sheets, the lace,
Pillows fluffed to the point of bursting.
My aunt lurks, eyes reproaching me for shifting out of place.
My grandmother’s house, me: uncouth, unkempt, unwomanly
Anomaly wearing her brother’s clothes.
My grandparents regard me with suspicion - wild girl, out of place.
Sundays, I tug at the collar of my dress. Starched fabric rubs
As the faithful rise from plush red pews.
Their praises ring; I stare at the ceiling. Still one, out of place.
Where is the woman who washes the clothes? The lady, meek
Who mends and tidies? She is loved,
They say. Loved more than the shrew- the wild girl, out. This place -
Wild - in the weeds. The wind scatters the seeds, the blood-soaked Sun
Hangs in the balance. The sound that I make
Is a howl. Wild, runaway dog turned wolf. Wild girl, out of place