and my head will be higher and I might even pause
to glance at myself in the windows. Other mornings,
I was young without knowing it, not even aware
that it was me walking by, that I was a woman,
my own woman. The skinny child that I was
awoke from a wail that had lasted for years:
now it’s as if that wail never happened.
And all I want now are colors. Colors don’t cry,
they’re like waking up: tomorrow the colors
come back. Each woman will walk down the street,
each body a color—even the children.
And my body, dressed in a frivolous red
after so much pallor, will get its life back.
I’ll feel the gazes of others gliding around me,
and I’ll know that I’m me. And glancing around,
I’ll see myself among people. Every new morning
I’ll walk down the street, looking for colors."
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