…flying, I’m immune to poisons. Found
skulled bottles at mother’s cave and
devised cocktails.

I’ve scarcely had my feet on the ground

since dropped by this woman, my mother.

I’m in pain if I don’t follow custom, or
awkward desire, but I don’t see roses,
forget my name, it’s such a distinction.

…want to be a vacant blue like the edge of skim milk
in a cup without a saucer,
clean curve the memory of a handle,
balanced on the back of my hand,

“HOPE” spelled out on the china in gold letters
half washed away.

Joanna Wiebe, 1984

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