woman/body/word

Sheree La Puma

The first-time the word enters Sylvia; it is through her own hand,
fingers strumming a new chord. Like a chickadee on the perch of
a new feeder, she is hungry & wild. Off stage, sounds of women
waking. I listen from the choir, meek, compliant. A throat thick

with worship expands & contracts, brings news of fulfillment to
an unsuspecting congress. She is a symphony & I have yet to touch
an instrument.  But I will soon know the meaning of shame. We
share a single tender moment. I learn to love the sound of loneliness

releasing. Sister, know me for who I am. Having been refreshed from
the cup of new Life, I refuse to renounce my identity. Her undressing
has made the world so soft. Teach me to raise my voice, slow & loose
like a woman rising from the grave. I am tired of the language of erasure.

I crave her shape, the glory of surrender, the quick & dirty way we fold
into skin. The heart is watching. It sees us on the battlefield, under
smoke-filled skies, searching for stars. Women have not been allowed
to season their own bodies. Give me the courage to bare my own face.

Sheree La Puma is an award-winning writer whose work has appeared in Redivider, The MacGuffin, SRPR, The Maine Review, Rust + Moth, among others. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of The Net and the Pushcart. She has a new chapbook, 'Broken: Do Not Use.' (Main Street Rag Publishing) www.shereelapuma.com