Yes, it can be admitted now: she had a secret once carried like a stone in her pocket until forgotten— (is this how what we are becomes unspeakable.) what if years later running her hands down her body she found that stone, worn now, and named it home or God or something equally hard?
Copyright © 2005 by Kathleen Jesme. From Motherhouse: Poems. Reprinted with permission of Louisiana State University Press.