Poems by Rose

I Can Never Be That Woman

 

I can never be that woman 

Whose fingers are finely painted, 

For my own paintings paint my fingers— 

Pigment pressed beneath each nail, 

Proof that pretty need not stay pristine. 

 

I can never be that woman 

Whose nails are long and gleaming, 

For mine have dug through dirt and roots, 

Pressed small seeds in sleeping soil, 

And learned that beauty begins below. 

 

I can never be that woman 

Who never smells of supper, 

For rosemary rests in my sleeves, 

Flour falls and butter blooms; 

I’d rather fill a hungry room 

Than keep a spotless kitchen still. 

 

I can never be that woman 

Who always shines inside the frame, 

For I am usually behind the glass, 

Chasing shadow, shaping light, 

Waiting for the world to whisper 

Which small second should remain. 

 

I can never be that woman 

Whose words arrive already whole, 

For mine come crossed and crowded— 

Rhymes revised, then rearranged, 

Metaphors muttered in the margins 

Until their broken music belongs. 

 

I can never be that woman 

Who can meet you anytime you call, 

For I am also someone’s mother, 

And some evenings are already spoken for— 

Spent laughing late with my daughter, 

Making memories before she’s grown. 

 

I can never be that woman 

Who only sees four walls and doors, 

For I have walked through vacant rooms, 

Turned keys, traced corners, talked of space, 

And seen a stranger’s empty square 

Become the shape of someone’s home. 

 

I can never be that woman 

Who follows fashion’s fleeting fever, 

Who learns each label, line, and leather, 

Or measures riches by what she owns. 

Mine are gathered differently— 

Less in closets, more in coordinates. 

 

A language learned beneath another sky,

A train that trails toward twilight, 

Rain ringing on a foreign street, 

A meal among unfamiliar faces, 

A road that carried me much farther 

Than anything I could ever wear. 

 

I can never be that woman 

Whose hands remain unmarked. 

 

Mine have held a camera, 

A canvas, 

A pen, 

A pan, 

A child’s hand, 

A ring of keys. 

 

They have planted and prepared, 

Photographed and painted, 

Written and worked, 

Held and helped, 

Made and mended 

More than they have ever merely worn. 

 

Perhaps I shall never be 

The woman some men imagine— 

Polished, poised, preserved, 

Too precious to be touched. 

 

But if you want a woman 

Who can turn a room into a refuge, 

A meal into a memory, 

A moment into an image, 

A wound into a word, 

A seed into a season, 

A childhood into something cherished— 

 

Then no, 

 

I was never meant to be 

that woman. 

 

I was always meant to be 

this one.