Ars Poetica: What Little Girls Are Made Of

THE WOMEN gather under the trees.

They bring gifts, food, and chairs.

They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,

Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.

And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.

Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,

shifting aside their robes to expose

missing limbs and gaping wounds.

The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,

eyes straining, and they chant,

"That is lovely, that is good,"

and the wounds stop weeping,

and they melt into scars,

silvery and light and beautiful.

Then the women lean back and laugh,

and they stretch, sensual and fierce,

like cats in the sun.

Monday, March 11, 2013

My hands are made of colored glass

and glue and lumps of clay.

My hair of fabric remnants

and white papier maché.

My feet are sawdust, sticks, and grass,

a splash of paint for toes.

My head is full of photographs

and poetry and prose.

My breasts are two maracas,

my tongue a treble clef.

My thighs are made of sourdough

shaped by a drunken chef.

So, dunk me in your water

and form me in your hand.

Whip me smooth like batter

or rough me up with sand.

Bake me in your oven

Shape me with a swirl.

But, remember when you break me

I’m just a little girl.

--Agatha