Poem

My part to play the princess:



 



twenty-four folds of my whitest dress,



 



field of dandelions flowering from my skin,



 



dozen dozing doves to trim.



 



Should they startle, I will be revealed.



 



Where is my cloudy crown,



 



my wreath of cotton? Garlanded body,



 



I am entitled to more



 



than downy dresses filled



 



with seeds. For before the birds



 



nested in my chest,



 



rainwater fell from my face.



 



I was not numinous,



 



I was entirely clear.



 



Now milk runs from me, for the birds



 



to lap with their little tongues,



 



for the weedy dandelions to wash in.



 



Every recess preened:



 



my part to play the princess.



 



Now I am entitled to make



 



a metaphor so white



 



that you could whip through it



 



like wind and fill the air



 



with feathers or flowers.