Brigitte Goetze

I have been golden, sweet
butter pressed into ornate molds,
so yielding, my mother offered up
my aid to anyone found ailing
in body or soul. I went without dissent.
A girl that nice contains
not a speck of spice.

I have been black basalt,
inscribed with sacred texts
obstructing my heart’s desire
to know a void divined
below my waist: “I do not need a mate.”
A girl that obstinate falls
for the first appearing pirate.

I’ve crossed the seas, a brigand’s bird.
The crow’s-nest was all he gave
for space. I coveted once
instead to be his galley’s figurehead.
Now, salt-sprayed, wind-whipped, gaunt—I climb out.
A girl that cold takes
her share of the cargo hold.