 
 
I ask the darkness
What is woman?
I have no map to that country,
Etched in the moon’s blood.
When mother left, she took the compass with her.
I have not received
Such secrets as pass
From mother to daughter.
What else is there to find but a changeling.
A poor facsimile made of barely-sculpted clay
Abandoned in an unused kiln,
The form fashioned from an absent mold
Painted by the hand of an artist
Who only just recalls
The fleeting beauty of her model.
By Sera Taino