I will not flat iron my hair to smooth
my frizzy truth for media’s sake, social or otherwise.
My nails will remain shorn short, unpainted.
I won’t trifle with make-up or fake eyelashes.
I don’t answer to the man
but sometimes do to the river.
I’ll not whisper secrets to anyone but the moon.
I’ll never sunbathe but will always rainsoak.
If you spy me at the library,
that’s wish fulfilment on my part.
I find my home between the lines of poems
more than almost anywhere else.
The cure for any life is death & I promise that I will
not not go gently into your sisterly light.
