Sycorax

As if someone blew against the back of my neck,

I writhed up, becoming a wind myself,



and I flowed out the window of my bedroom.

Maybe I also emitted a moan over the croaking



of the frogs that night. Then I raised my arms

to the clouds, rooting my feet deep in the soil.



A stretch, I called it.



Now—pure nature in the night,

too sway-of-the-trees wise to worry about men—



I opened my nightgown but offered nothing

to anyone. This is for me, I said aloud to the night.



People would have laughed had they seen me

out their windows, naked but for my nightgown



flapping: I was small but the conviction of my stance

would’ve made me seem immense, framed



through their windows. Without my clothes

I was a world of possibility, more than a desire.



I, knowing better, I ought to mind my place,

I ought to walk like a lady,



I ought to demure myself to make him feel stronger,

I ought to mourn him when



he is gone. But every word I spoke to the wind

carried to him the scent of his regrets.



Every word blew through the night,

a breeze of my indifference.