I do not write poetry, but dismantle language to reflect some selfish ache.

My stories conquer me, as perhaps they always have.

A time ago, I thought they conquered all of us.

and let myself submerge in that frail comfort, called the world a splintered limb, and clung to it.

But one child birthed herself, whimsically into this calloused home,

and harbored in the dimming shades of her grandmother.  In delicate isolation

she had pulled out most of her hair, and wore a kerchief on her bald head, when I met her.

Her thighs were round, milk was in her cheeks and hands and I hunted to bury in her form.

Bound in the world I had named wanting, my whole self hid in the torn threads of my fingers.

She took them and wound them around her own, and I was naked.

And this dread laughter that collapses into a cough, again and again, ceased.

The caries of my humor untangled like a puppet’s strings, and repented, to form a working body.

For a long while I drowned her–having drawn a fragile bow to shoot the stag who let me go bare.

But far beyond my aim: a weathered myth, she carried herself.

A solid tapestry, woven with her hair, anchored me in it–as any good life will.

So we danced in circles.  My hair to cover her head she, burning color into my words.

She was born to pluck herself naked before the world, I began to mourn her fallen parts.

Sadly this consumed me.  My breadth was not wide enough for her loom.

I pulled away, returned to clinging, and hunted to forget:  Long after we surrendered into the haven

of our former shades, her tapestry survived me.

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by Shannon Nissa Bailey Powers