Molly Fisk: That Kind of Woman

We try them on as subjects, our mythical forebears,

wondering who we are: Penelope. Persephone. Eve.

Eurydice. Sleeping Beauty, Cassandra, Ophelia, Cinderella.

Barbie. Because we know what it’s like to have our visions

ignored. To lie completely still, waiting for kisses — unravel

something it took all day to weave. To be taken

unwillingly into fear and darkness and still be hungry.

We’ve teetered in 4-inch heels, whether our feet

were molded plastic or not. We’ve swept the hearth,

we’ve offered water. Floated downstream, weeds, leaf-wrack

snarled in our hair. We’ve bitten into the apple and left

the marks of our teeth. We know what it’s like to walk the path

behind him, beautiful man, wondering almost academically

whether he loves us enough not to turn, so familiar

with his impatience we know he cannot help but turn.

Vox Populi