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