A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
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.
Copyright 2019 Molly Fisk