If I sank down an octave would I fit where I am?
Would I have space to turn back around?
Narrower hips, perhaps a straighter lip
thick fingers wide shoulders stubborn bones.
Each time my skull itches it makes a small wish,
a whisper packaged too tight in smooth skin—
if the wind kissed my neck, laid it bare no resistance
would my hands miss clinging to curls?
Should I run lower, run truer run straight
my chin would dive in a direction brand new—
a waxed moon, so delicate and true,
I want her wider want her frictioned want her ridged.
Does she have the courage to take a deep plunge?
Does she fear she can’t make a return?
My wrists pray for some coarseness,
for knuckles spouting dark hair,
for nails stubby nails jagged nails chipped—
a simple indulgence to roll up my sleeves,
to twist a watch with a steady-beating heart.
Could it be just for a second? Even half a quick breath?
I need to see my reflection look kinder—
I’m told it comes from within, the call to begin
except I hear it outside myself, wailing.
(Poetry Pause, League of Canadian Poets 2024)
WILDsound Writing Festival 