(Womanhood)

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Sometimes I see fractured frames when piano music plays. The notes are heavy steps trying to fly. Again and again jumping off the roof towards the melting sun.

Sometimes I rub pine sap into my skin when walking close to trees, pushing and pushing the vibrancy into my pores and singing my senses awake.

Sometimes when collaging life — these fractured frames — I run out of glue. I pull off my silk clothes, hang them on the porch rail, and walk bare into the sunned breath of you.

Poem-a-month June 2020.