I’ve cut you open like an apple—
performed the autopsy of your life so far.
You disintegrate each year
waiting for others to see what constellations
are braided in your tendons—
you have made honeycomb of your bones
I’ve seen what sparks through
your veins, where and when you were happiest:
a rainbow chaser with eyes like a Montana sky—purging stained glass
in your childhood wasteland; the sweet cyclone—of destruction
with wildflowers in her hair,
dancing by the side of the road
just before a springtime sunshower
passes by, like a speeding car.
You tire of trying on personas that will get you the attention you seek:
Tell them you’re a siren in a red or black dress—only when frozen
on film will they believe it. In person you bumble, grab at men
begging them to take you to bed, love you in the morning.
You never let go of the lotharios who laugh in your face.
Pretend you are a trickster: though you hold no secrets
nor knowledge in your iridescent bag. You may stumble into prizing money
from the local fool—but you’ve never mastered the long con except when deluding yourself into believing you have foundation, that you are healed.
You try to play at magic. Think it’s just crystals around your neck—
admiring the moon makes you her daughter. There’s no sorcery
in your marrow to be the witch in your village, no foresight to see
beyond your mirror— to watch how your bitterness ripples.
You are still a dandelion seed caught in the wind;
how can you go dream walking in the desert—
dig past the mantle of Earth,
and find your core?
Marisa Silva-Dunbar's work has been published in Sledgehammer Lit, Better Than Starbucks Magazine, Chantrelle's Notebook and Pink Plastic House. She has work forthcoming in the Daily Drunk Magazine. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris. You can find more of her work at www.marisasilvadunbar.com.