I can see that she is free, truly free,
and I just can’t help comparing myself –
in my too hot stockings and need to be
noticed iron maiden dress; pouring sweat; breath-
less lungs spanxed small; breasts bound; lips laced with paint;
eyes shaped and shadowed to strange skitter orbs
(peripheral to catch even the faint –
est look of approval and search for more) –
to her, shining naked as the North Star,
kicking her bare feet and screaming her needs
fearlessly, shamelessly, as if they are
the garden itself and not just weeds
to pull as she becomes a “real” woman.
Oh, tend those weeds, child! It’s you you’re growing.