even if you
are my
mother,
you are
afraid to see
what is under
my clothes as
much as i am
towards you
seeing me
under my clothes.
you fear this cage
of skin,
a hollow
pond that
expands
and ripens
in the daylight
frost, wind
pounds against
my chest in a
frenzy.
it begs to
flow
through
most objects,
symbolizing
freedom and
clarity,
gossamer,
like southern
curtains
howling in
the texan
sunshine.
my body is a
foul memory,
bruised and
traumatized
from replays
that begged
closed eyes
to avoid its
brown skin.
my body is
a door, in the
forest full
of tigers and
leopards and
panthers
and bobcats
and lions with
watering holes
that harbor
my sweat.
it feeds millions
of particles and
atoms, so why
would you call
it useless?
scary? ugly?
hackneyed?
forgotten?
unloved?
never-to-be-
touched?
a question i
never ask myself,
because naked in
the mirror, i cry
tears of joy.