Selections from Here is a Woman | Barbara March
Guilt is her underbelly until mortality slaps her—overnight,
two inches of invisible wing sounds.
Rain from the left.
The apricot unprecedented, snow from all sides, flashes of light stick to her face. All yellow eyes
and fragile sex pop.
Dunes of snow on the lane speak headlands, dikes, hulls of boats, coral bone white.
The old lane disguises as a line and DNA molecules free straight reckoning.
Wings stoke the crystal mirror for singing out loud.
– – –
The foot caught in the stirrup turned a hinge
into the fourth nightmare.
Now she’s the anxious observer,
dry-eyed from time in the sun, determination of the buckets,
the foundered stile accuses the sky.
Soften, soften. Let her tell you. But first notice the field’s curve,
its glassy eye.
The shivering snipes.
Ten telephone poles say get off the cross and walk.
When a woman is lost sometimes all she asks for is a toothpick.