Mazed

The word was late-bloomers

a bud too tightly clasped in upon

itself to bloom—waiting

for what, a sign,

the right word spoken to pass

or some special going-out of the tide

nobody knew

 . . . least of all ourselves

we were waiting like a held-in breath

let out by degrees, there’s

nothing clean about growing

waking

up: messy as a second birth

red and pain and crying

everywhere.

freckled snub-noses

awkward new hips and breasts

maybe we were waiting for you

or thought we were—anyway

we called for something

and you came

you all artifice, all

glamour and glitter and hard

right angles

performed power

but you tantalized us with the hint of curves

glinting in the darkness of the bedroom

and we followed

we ourselves were all rounded, peaches, easy enough

to bite into, with your sharp

wolf-teeth and shark-eyes

mismatched

thinking you were the goal

posturing at the center of the maze

as if you were the point

of it all.

but you didn’t make the maze

it was here before

you built up your ruse, faked curves

you didn’t have, painted your eyes

wicked and long-lashed

enticing

pretending

mimicking power

a jester-king

and we are creatures of bush and swamp

the dark and moist, secret places

smelling of salt blood and tears

and growing

the way stone doesn’t.

you all angles

and sleight-of-hand

inorganic

well-ordered

and clear-cut, sharp as

crystal

in your glass house

castle

no difference

there was more to us

than flowers and peaches

easily tamed

in virgin-white dresses.

messy and swampy and

sharp-tasting as salt in

our veins, a force of nature

smashing

budding and blooming at last

ready to leap

to discover

that the tide was out

and the center was here

all along

I found me and took our hand

curling together like ivy vines

and we all-strong and

far beyond the cravings of

control

insatiably alive

and still-growing

we knew the maze

for our own.

for the power is mine

is ours

to give to you

or to take

and we I choose to take.