She Wore Oceans

She is not a body, but a tide;

pulling and spilling, full of moons.

A name stretched over bone like wet silk,

she is the ash and the match, the echo in a room

where every woman left a piece of herself nailed into the wall.

Her skin is not skin

it’s a field, wild and burning, sowed with silence and bloom.

They told her she was too much and not enough in the same breath.

So she became wind.

So she became wave.

So she became the sound of glass before it breaks; but doesn’t.

She does not ask to be understood

only to be held like a mystery,

like myth,

like the last word in an unfinished prayer.