She filled her bowl with borscht
for the second time,
added sour cream,
and pondered the heat in her years-old body.
The problem was space,
having had to do with space all of her life,
None of it hers.
Orange fruit in a black bowl
is one thing,
aging female bodies, another.
No single way.
No knife.Going on sentimental forays at 4 a.m.demons catching a rideis no way to find it.She wouldn’t mind being six again,not sixteen or even thirty-six,
when she was still fulfilling the dreams of others,
her own dreams featuring buses
lost in public places.
She forges ahead, fictions revised,
and with gender intact
as her mother would have wanted.— Joyce Luna