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
Yes, my fascination with the language of poetry continues unabated. This guest post is from Joyce Luna—artist, musician, and poetic wanderer. She currently lives in Victoria Canada with her dog Mickey. She’s also my mom.
yomimiyo 
Allison. Your mom sounds like a really thoughtful and in-tune person. Thanks for sharing.
She is, Jeff. And luckily for me, doesn’t seem to mind that I write about her experience of the world. Thanks so much for reading!
Thank you two wonderful women for speaking your truth!
I love you both.