Who Are You?

 

“Who are you?”

 

The caterpillar

With his hookah

Vapor curling

Like the Cheshire’s smile

 

I draw a blank

Seeking clues in his gaze

Cold as ice

I’ve failed the test

And now I’ll never be a real girl

 

Life is falling down a well

And all around you

Everyone is falling too

At desks in offices

Chewing cigars

On dates at the movies

Or feet up on the couch

With their hair dangling

Wine spilling upwards

 

Upside down and topsy turvy

Plummeting down the rabbit hole

And no one is screaming

Except those locked away

 

I am

Fields of sunflowers washed in light

Bees buzzing on lavender and sunflowers

Clover flowers and honeysuckle

Dirt and skin warmed by the sun

The scent of jasmine and light

Tickles my nose

 

I am

Catching fireflies

On a summer night

With mason jars

Grubby hands

Stained with florescence

 

I am

An old growth forest

Light stained by leaves

Spattered across

Hard packed earthen trails

Under and over barbed bushes

Perfume

Of crushed pine needles

 

I am

A broken jukebox

Offkey

Forgotten lyrics

Nothing but the chorus

On repeat

Hoping I’m alone

 

I am

A witch who curses brides

Steals babies

Cures sickness

As ornery as my goats

As hated as the truth

 

A child dancing on a grave

“Don’t be sad! Look at me!”

 

A warrior gone to waste

A mother with no child

A song that’s out of tune

A poem without a rhyme

A nap that lasts too long

Summer days that bleed together

 

The smell of

Books

Incense

Evergreen leaves

Laundry left too long in the wash

 

Fingernails stained with

Onions and garlic

Cigarette yellowing

Ink

 

Am I

Jeans and t-shirt

The last book I read

My favorite color

“What’s your major?”

“What kind of music do you like?”

“What wakes you up at night

 

Do you scream?”

 

Am I

What I fear?

What I wish?

My past, present, or future?

My friends?

 

Am I my mother?

Am I broken?

Am I good?

 

Am I more what I eat for breakfast

Or the color of my hair?

 

What do my pigtails mean?

 

Sometimes I think

I am an open book

In an unknown language

Or at least that everyone’s waiting for the movie

 

I am made of stars

But all things being equal

I’m also made of worm shit

 

I am

In the kitchen

Turning, Twirling

The familiarity

Has become a dance

Accompanied by

Bubbling pots

Running water

The thud of knives

On cutting boards

 

I am

Grabbing the fence posts

Swinging back and forth

Feeling the strength of my arms

Joyous motion becoming

An overwhelming physical ache

To do a cartwheel

But too afraid

 

I am

If

And Yellow Wallpaper

Grimm’s Fairytales

Dime store romance novels

A dusty bookshop

A morality tale: half-read

And poorly understood

 

I am most myself

In the moment after my eyes have closed

My head has cleared just enough

For waves of pressed down fear

Unquelled by nightlights or heavy quilts

To ride into my vision

Carrying words on the froth

That drift like smoke out of the darkness

 

“Who are you?”

 

I imagine

A wooden door

A suspicious eye

A raspy voice

 

And I answer

“A fairy princess”

“A druid”

“A warrior”

“A mouse”

 

I step through

Transformed

And tell a story

To lull my restless mind

Into sleeps sweet submission

 

I guess

I am a writer