Stolen
Woman, you are not your body
always not right, fluttering or sullen
on this bruised earth.
You are not that secret you hold—
a hive of bees breeding fury and ocean
not the wound you dress and try
to forget.
Woman, you are not the bottom of the cup,
or the coffee grounds swept to the floor.
You are not the crumbs on the table
after the feast, nor the handbag with its cracked
vinyl handles, ripped lining.
Not the last melon—withered rind,
fragrance fading
Not the wife at the sink again
scraping the leftovers,
the sweater in the corner
pilling, distended.
You are not the inventory of your home
the catalog on the table, contents of the pantry
Not the babies you’ve birthed,
the maps they’ve left on your body,
the hungry cradle dreaming to be filled
You are not the French manicure, the earrings,
the lipstick. You are not even the concealer,
the diamond ring
the naked finger.
You are an egg
a seed
a conspicuous secret.
You are a story being told, a song,
a warrior and weapon
the other side of the equation,
multiplier, addend.
You are the one called to climb up
on the lap, to tell your secrets, collect
your tears in vials.
You are a mystery, magnificat
object of beauty, vessel to be filled.
You are Rapunzel, deciding to let down her hair,
Cinderella, keeping the shoe.
You are salt, light,
the favorite daughter brought near.
You are not the ashes from those ancient fires,
but the crown of beauty he made from them.
Not the ruins of the walls, resolute and broken
but the open field, fertile and waiting
Not the cloak of despair clinging heavy
around those shoulders, each step reminding
you of your own
weak legs,
But the wedding dress—a garment of praise
tailored to your body, your spirit dancing
as your Lover calls you.
And as he calls you, you come into being—
an oak of righteousness, a planting of the Lord,
the display of his splendor.
by Jessica Uhler
February, 2008
Making the most of the new table saw...
