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April 2, 2012


My skin is wrinkled up

with living, landscapes

of experience unfold under

my breasts.  I count the scars

of being lover, being mother, womb.

I finger sorrow’s little traces

in my greying hair.  I am her:

ageing:  my body the map

of stories and struggles, arranging

and changing herself

into words.    Only now

it is, that I can imagine this:

that I am perfect.

©Susan Smith

From → Poems

  1. Linda Redwine permalink

    Simply beautiful!

  2. Thank you, Linda!

  3. I agree with Linda

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