Cellophane

I wake up at five 

pack my day 

in cellophane 

so others won't soil it with their hands 

I don't give up at six 

words flee from the constellation of noise 

At seven, I read poetry 

and do other useless things 

I no longer drink coffee 

for a good day 

it makes my stomach hurt 

I don't have cellophane for it yet.

Drink Me to Shrink

Shrink, shrink

until you fit in a palm,

until you condense into a word— one or many.

She is someone’s mother, sister, daughter,

now that she's suffered she is least of all a woman.

Shrink, so you can fit into the frames,

into expectations, into statistics.

Don’t stand out, don’t shout,

just smile, make sure to smile.

Now that she’s been born,

she is least of all alive.

Don’t seek what belongs to your brother, your father,

if you have none, don’t seek your uncle’s,

because what belongs to men

is cursed for women.

If you dare take it, it’s stolen.

Shrink, shrink,

be gentle, be demure,

never more than silver.

Shrink, until you return to the size of a rib.

Sometimes

Sometimes the words just pass me by

Don't know the questions or reasons why

Everything seems less colored than yesterday

Please don't run to me, just run away.