Solitude In An Empty Box
If I were a cardboard girl
with a paper plate and paper spoon,
I’d sail across Blanche’s cardboard sea and peer up at her paper moon.
My mind spins in orbit; love, loathe, like, lust.
A practiced pace of round and round,
never arriving, never found.
The fire and blue of the swirling below
would surely swallow
a cardboard girl whole.
As a cardboard girl, I have infinite time.
I can paint and print and sing and rhyme.
I am recycled, over and over.
The dog jumps over the dune, and I laugh from my high vantage point.
Nothing can touch me here,
The stars are so clear.
Who knew that being made by man meant making myself?
Made and remade. The self is the soul, the centre, the mother.
Why would I need another
Person to complete me?