You speak of playing with pebbles
your perfect fingers stroking their glassy exterior until calm.
I imagine my body shrinking to a blue crystal size
being transferred from index to middle…
from middle to wedding-
the way I sometimes imagine you pressing piano keys.
My hand wanders along the edges of my most confusing body parts.
Skin cold and firming,
though soft with the gentle brush of ungroomed, stray hairs.
I don’t feel like a woman though I am made of more femininity than I know what to do with.
What questions have I not tried etching out of my skin;
out of my deepest peace and pieces
until shuddering explodes through the innermost in…
These muscles and tissues –
of what use are they without enough brain for ideas?
Is Brain worth much without Soul for direction?
Am I a perfectly balanced confliction?
Or do I yearn to be lady enough
to be the pebble in your palm?