they cast her wrong in the film, not thin,
a bone jutting from the rib, sharp and stick-like
good for poking out an eye, scrappy–
means nothing more than scraps, pieces not good enough for eating or keeping or even stitching together.
they fall onto the floor or into the waste bins and we feel, yes, that is where they belong.
Is it too bold to say women are scraps? That we are unkind to each other because we’ve never felt ourselves whole pieces?
(That we scrape by. That we scrap together.)
The force with which a woman will move the earth is a force we all know well,
that of our mother’s dragging us home by limp wrist, jerking us off the road where cars fly by, keeping our clothes clean so we may appear presentable,
ready for life.