Chair | In Print | Panels
& Presentations | Awards &
Appointments | Miscellany
| From the Editor
bulges of a womanly body strewn with stretch marks
me of where I have been.
thought to fruits, with thin outer coverings.
and nourishing; the inner flesh.
heavy, plump, and smooth.
speckled, glowing, green and new.
cycles of seasons, my family
with women, their tender wants and needs.
we think that fruits have rules of conduct?
they find importance in appropriateness?
that what locks them within their thinning fleshy suits,
to be split open?
have her hands,” they tell me.
trace lines on my palms and think of their purpose.
smooth like the skin of fruits, uncalloused
ink and thread wrapped needles,
change the hands and make them my own.
make my hands beyond what is right.
become unexpected, and inappropriate.
broken spirit of my mother, of women through generations,
a roughly tattooed heart forever set into my hands.
that I am not her, but someone
not fruit, smooth and providing,
with unswallowed freewill.
to TCR ]