Wattle Woman
Barbara Daniels
I hate my toady webbed
fingers. My hobgoblin arms.
I keep myself to myself,
prepare to climb on my fork
and fly through the roof
to the moon. Half my life
I’ve wanted to know what’s
wrong with me. I say,
“I like the depth of it.”
I mean despair. I hate
my wattled neck, voice
like a sandstorm’s flung
grit. The seething sun falls.
The sky behind me—red
rags. I’m a moth that throws
itself at the porch light,
fooled, blinded, waving
yammering wings. The earth
rushes onward, my body
swept up by solar winds.
Barbara Daniels
I hate my toady webbed
fingers. My hobgoblin arms.
I keep myself to myself,
prepare to climb on my fork
and fly through the roof
to the moon. Half my life
I’ve wanted to know what’s
wrong with me. I say,
“I like the depth of it.”
I mean despair. I hate
my wattled neck, voice
like a sandstorm’s flung
grit. The seething sun falls.
The sky behind me—red
rags. I’m a moth that throws
itself at the porch light,
fooled, blinded, waving
yammering wings. The earth
rushes onward, my body
swept up by solar winds.