yours, yours, yours.
i would say I am not, the
petulant cry of a girl almost
dead. 'not a mouse' I would cry-
'and never yours' and yet on my face
is written the scars of three women gone-
the dying crone, the yellow snake, the whore
of babylon. yours, yours - the face, the brown
hair curling at the roots, the painted cards laid out
on the table. yours, the veined, pale skin, the
hips given to swaying, your madness in my
blood will out. and they say you cannot
inherit this - I say at night I dream of
maybe-worlds and futures, spit in
black waters and curse men
dead. only daughter of
a witch and a soldier -
what am I then, if
not yours?

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