I have on My Play Dress:
My hand-embroidered calf-length Mexican House Dress
It’s White
with Black Campeche Stitching
It’s airy around My Lap
when I sit in My Red Deck Chair
one knee up
I Rub My Eyes
I Am The Child
no longer fettered by toys
I had no favourites
as I do Now:
My Silver Pen
My Journals
They are My Tools
–
I threw a dolly
with a pin in her stomach
into a closet
and scratched out The Faces
of female dolls
in a print above My Bed–
leaving the Boy Clown alone
He Was My Friend
–
I use the trappings of fashion Now
to parade My Self around
to say I Am Here
This Is Where
I Belong
and I Can See
You
Through Adult Eyes
8:06am
I see a backwards rainbow
circling around the sun
My Adulthood is on a collision course
with My Childhood yet undone
I am Mrs Dr W Hunter Blair
I sit on My Deck
& write poetry
I dress for The Weather
& whatever else is going on
I listen to The Sheets & Towels
fluttering on the line
I listen to The Birds
The Waves
& whatever else is going on
I listen
I write
for Joanna Gilman Hyde
Here I sit in My Black Slip
of a Nightgown
waiting for The World to End
waiting for All Our Global Assets
to fall apart
to be rearranged
to be supported
by All The Silver & Gold
We can possibly carry
10:48am
I look at the water dazzle
& think of what to write
I’ve been with Hunter
thirteen years
& not without a fight
–
11:00am
I want to climb into bed
like A Child
& hold onto My Daddy’s Head
from here to infinity
wild
OK ‘cuz now He’s dead
–
11:22am
A Butterfly has inspected
Me
I don’t know where She’ll
Land
perhaps on Someone Else’s
Lips
or in a Friendship’s
Hand
My Son just confirmed, echoed
I have a booming voice
“like no other”
Am I Gifted
or just loud in restaurants?
Do I Make Sense?
I am heard
through My Writing —
but when will I yell out
authoritatively
to Our World
for Our World
to Guide?
to Scold?
Joanna Gilman Hyde 