Like Stone, Like Soil

Excuse me, I am

busy accepting my radical

softness, my paper

lantern, crumpled

hundred, sputtering

radiator kind of

feminism.

It’s hard

to be soft

when the road home is

incompletely paved

and I’m still

tonguing gravel

from my gums.

It is hard

to be soft

when soft is what

I am,

when under the rippled

surface I am dark and

churning. I am soft

like stone

rubbed smooth with

current and sediment.

I am soft like the sun

is soft, from

a distance.

I am soft like

soil, making a home

for worms,

making homes from

holes. I am soft

like bird wing

and fish fin (and I come

with all manner of

dangerous beaks

and scales).

And I am soft

like paint is soft

and garish

and toxic

and permanent.