#122 – Woman Forty Nine


Pale blue lines map stories up and down her forearms,

traverse her thighs.


She is gently take care of what’s left,

assembling a justification,

while recalling warm breezes blowing

through the long hairs across her shins and calves.


Like the dark tangles under her arms,

these shadows were not suitable to be seen.


Thick grey veins drawn under thin skin bulge from her hands

like old explanations.


They’ve always been evident but were never part of the plan.


These are not such delicate tales.


#121 -Woman Forty Eight


She is in process.

Her straight, thin, orange hair has grown past her waist.
Her long dark curly hair frames her round face.
Her pale freckled skin and small dark eyes have transformed.
Her large hands sparkle with pink nails speckled with silver glitter.

In a short black dress and high heels, her voice betrays her,
for now.

Bearing witness to modifications that unite an exterior image with
a genuine interior self. She is all courage.

A true being, being true.

#120 – Woman Forty Seven


“The truth was so fast. You had to squint. It was occurring to her in strange and swift seconds of vision that her communication with the world, that secret atmosphere that she was cultivating around herself like a darkness, was her final existence – beyond that border she herself was silent like a thing.”

Clarice Lispector

#119 – Woman Forty Six


Full and round and rose.
Press into the fleshy thigh, the plump arm,
the full cheek and the pink will bounce back.
She is powerful in her skin.

Like a marble sculpture, hard and defined.
Flesh wraps tightly around muscle.
Strength realized through sweat and tears.
She is powerful in her skin.

Draped as thin fabric across bone.
Flesh detaches from the muscle.
Wrinkles are her inscriptions of experience and time.
She is powerful in her skin.

#118 – Woman Forty Five

Dark waters1

She is these dark waters,
without emptiness for light or air to seep in.

She eats everything,
then circles round for more.

Sharp white teeth fill a gaping red mouth.

Swimming in the same black waters
that fill her up, she dives deep and surfaces.

Dives deep and surfaces.

Suffering this insatiable hunger,
she bears a constant struggle to
feed her self-absorbed question,
“why me?”

Summer waves fall lightly, blue-green, salty.

But her waters swirl violently.

They will either be calmly stilled,
build a gradual yet powerful vortex
pull her under.

#117 – Woman Forty Four


As she presses the door open, her body is met with a

surge of heat releasing itself from the dark room.

The evening sun is low, but temperatures have risen.


She enters, observes the salt.

Just days ago,

transparent crystals shimmered like

a field of false diamonds.


And now, unexpectedly they

have disintegrated into a soft, vague snowfall.


The bright white forms crumble at the touch,

defying her attempts to coax them into a new landscape.

#114 – Woman Forty One


     She is all she needs but will never realize

     inside of a pink sky.

     Black eyes dirty fingernails.


“Time is reverberating.  The sun is always shrouded… Here, in this place, outside,

in the woods and in the fields, is the fuzzy presence, muffled but powerful, of

young human beings alive in the world.

It’s not what young girls are dreaming but what they are thinking”


Marie Darrieussecq, Being Here is Everything”


Head of a Blonde Girl In Front of a Landscape, 1901, Paula Moderson-Becker

#113 – Woman Forty


She is climbing the walls on the third floor,

alone in a room filled with people.


She has paused in her self-imposed strain.


She is upside-down

observing the room with closed eyes and soft breath.

She smells jasmine tea and exertion.


In slow motion, four fingernails dig into the plaster wall,

painted infirmary green.

With resistance, her forearm pushes the thick air away while

her fingers blossom open from her dry palm.


(A time-lapse film of a cabbage rose blooming into a

delicate pale pink sphere.)


She remains low and quiet while

an un-choreographed dance releases,

surrounds her.


Without moving, she floats out the window.

A crisp blue wind blows over her faint body and

carries her away.