The child first believes the body drawn blue
can tide skies beyond panes, can sift
ㅤㅤㅤㅤinto the moon and back. Change is feasible,
is furious, is the many filaments of a self
ㅤㅤㅤㅤsurfacing at a magnetic doodle board
bending to a hopeful pen. The shape
of a mother is anything before the child
learns the tone of flesh, before the pen
ㅤㅤㅤㅤbecomes roped-in anchor, learns to stamp
down stars, has the body blue broken
ㅤㅤㅤㅤinto house, named from any moon
to monster, first by some God in a helmet,
then by the body, herself.
How quickly a baring of breasts
ㅤㅤㅤㅤdrawn by the two of my child-hands
is swept from the slate. How naked
ㅤㅤㅤㅤmy mother’s apology as I, emptied
toy in hand, am rushed from the door.
How sudden is the knowing
of shame, of learning this first part
ㅤㅤㅤㅤof us to cover when uncovered?
What’s kept closed behind doors?
What humiliation! It could burn
the whole house down.
Never mind she was first given to me
bare. Never mind I did not turn
ㅤㅤㅤㅤthen from her bruised body, even if drawn
in tears. No—how right is my making of blame,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤthe hurt of each poem, hard metal core
of my pen molded by men. How marked
is emancipation—with a mother beaten
into any woman’s body, imagine
ㅤㅤㅤㅤwho her child could be. Each time I look
she could change.