Walk on your toes
Silent steps
Weight carried
In muscled calves
Have you ever
Witnessed a woman
Stomping in heels
Ridiculous, impetuous
Precarious stiletto perch
We are not birds
Yet we volunteer
To be storks
Last night I wore
A raven’s guise
Weak attempt at
Sylphlike statue
Kohl lined eyes
While sleek tresses
Bounced silver light
Final touch: fake nails
Act of adding spikes
To extremities
Some kind of
Social battle armour
Upon night’s end
Numb feet floundered
(I had also
Stabbed my nostrils
Blowing my nose)
From the sanctity
Of my car
Stepping out of
Self-inflicted torture
Popping off
Pointy talons
Melting back into
This soft creature
That I am
An easy, fluid flow
Shaped by others
I wrap around
Those I love
No hard edges
Inside or out
Displaced by burdens
But also a
Burbling brook of
Laughter and joy
It can be nice
On occasion
To become a
Mysterious creature
Chimera hybrid
Exotic eyes
All claws and teeth
Yet I would
Rather be a river
Warmed by sunlight
Offering peace, comfort
Defined by the
Sturdy banks
Of those beloved
Holding me close
About the Creator
Aspen Marie
In love with life and all of its foibles.
Keep reading
More stories from Aspen Marie and writers in Poets and other communities.
The First Wingbeat
The moment before flight is always quieter than anyone expects. It doesn’t arrive with revelation or thunder or some cinematic surge of certainty. It comes as a tremor—small, internal, almost private. A shift in the body before the mind has language for it. A recognition that something in you has already decided, long before you admit it out loud. The first wingbeat is not motion. It is permission.
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Comments (3)
Well-wrought! Protective eyewear may be in order for flying heels and nails!
Hahahahahahaha I'm so sorry, I know it must have been so painful, but I can't help laughing. How is your nose now? Also, red and black are my favourite colours, and I absolutely loved those nails!
Oh love this. And as much as I love my wife glammed up looking sexy I understand the frustration of the facade. Another important and Evocative poem, dear Marie! Well wrought