When her flesh has burned clean off the bone, the
Silent Woman collapses - clatters - and someone new
steps in neatly to take her place, becomes Wandering
Woman who travels far and does not look back and runs
and runs. She gathers Silent Woman - silent because

silence is the only option against violence; Angry Woman
did not know this, but she learned - and discards her
frame. The body is sunken, the throat collapsed. New
women enter it and emerge, fruitful. Ripe. Loss crawls
in her holy gut, and Wandering Woman chokes down

the thick sludge of grief permeating her chalky mouth.
Says I have known many women through this
shell, tried out Pliant and Vengeful, slipped into
Mad and Trembling, been Fights-Back and Takes-It,
and the only truth is that it doesn’t make a damn difference.

It makes no difference. If the only certainty is violence,
destruction of the self is radical and healing. Necessary.
We are killing ourselves with each moon cycle, rotting
with the figs and the tart cherries, becoming more
potent. This is the way it is.

Wandering Woman remembers the women she has
been, floods the world with her vital grief. Looks in
the mirror and sees herself split in many, knuckles
split from learning the glass. Holds a standing
ovation for the blank eyes betraying nothing, runs
and runs.

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