by Melanie Perish
We are not always the wise woman;
the staunch healer, the constant midwife,
the one who culls the herbs
into the magic poultice.
We are not always mother and daughter,
the strong hands, the nipple’s sweetness,
the arms that rock and rock
and give when need demands it.
We are not always earth and water,
nor two sheaves of wheat,
nor shells wet with repetitious waves,
the salt rim fresh on the thin smooth lip.
Sometimes we are the spinsters
who turn the wheel, but do not spin,
the mother’s nag, the daughter’s wanton anger.
Sometimes you are the river,
the river that threatens my field;
I am the wave that hurls its crest
like rocks
against your clapboard beach house.
Like atoms
we move,
owning weight, mass, momentum.
We are not always anything but ourselves.
© 1984 Melanie Perish All rights reserved.
“We Are Not Always” first appeared in Sinister Wisdom, Fall 1984
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