Do not define me
as a woman, or a wheel
of rolling curves, with lipstick
in my pocket and perfect polish on my shoes. I am
not interested in shoes.
I carry this body with two breasts and I have born and raised
children like a sacred treaty between the unmarked countries
of time and infinity. I have loved with two arms,
lived with thoughts of Schopenhauer in my sleep and nurtured
the orphan pup. Do not define me—
my sexuality is not confined to the tender receiving sigh,
not to the congregation of gossip and giggles
and the making of apple strudel. I do not knit,
though I bow to the knitters
more than I do to the intellectuals, and gossip bores me.
Talking bores me unless it is about God or the many ways
we are given to love—children, animals, art.
(Lover’s love I only speak about in poetry, because that is
private). Do not define me. I would love to be
straight lines, proudly hanging, perfectly clear.
I would like to be brutal. Women can be brutal,
can be like a smile—
gloriously giving, razor sharp, androgynously
Author: Allison Grayhurst
Editor: Catherine Monkman
Photo: Author’s Own