Anne Marie Rooney


I am a small girl. The length of me is taken by winds
to a stranger place where the air crows down. I believe
them when they tell me that. That the open word
is fallible. The large animals take the space so greenly, I lie
in the dark and more than let them. My pouts of black fur
come off in the wash then the rain comes off me and my skin
is blank with moss. The old land buckles closer in a shy
trench, the sky pasty with various almosts where the body
paged down into oil. I am a small girl, I am also prone
to the promise of weather. My ankles enter a new silver, even
the lines press me up. I feel right with it: the might. The lie lasts          
itself open. There are prints the size of battered oceans, born in.
I push for greater heave, depression. But I am so small.





For the past few years, I've been writing specifically around the feeling(s) of being young, and female. Fourteen is the age in particular in my mind. What does it do to the body? What shapes does the wildness inside us try to fit into? (Of course, all of our experiences are different; this is one, very particular.)