by Megan Wildhood
One has deep-set fear like her mothers.
One carries the dreams and lashes of his fathers.
My ankles ache with want of dance.
Others’ hands are strong to lead.
I have the crooked spine of over-accommodating
but also the sure feet of slow, slow progress.
Others’ eyes lock more easily than mine.
My eyes change the color of the roses.
Others bump into me, step on my feet, stub their toes,
yell and whisper and hug; this chaos is mastery.
One has the love of God. One cries for the love of God.
One wears pain like a shield, one like a compass.
My soul has claws my spirit hates.
Others’ souls seem to graze here more gracefully.
The unmediated sea of my sisters, brothers, every other.
I would not have my heart broken any other way.