The Question Is
Why do we need to be told
over and over that it’s fine
to be,
just to be what we are.
Permission to rest,
to not feel
small,
to want less,
to do the one thing,
to love.
For some time
I’ve wanted to set my fork
down,
to fill up on stillness,
on melancholy, and lack,
to be useless awhile.
I could believe
in slowness,
in time,
for bitter green things
to ripen
If I didn’t already believe
so wholeheartedly
I was on the verge
of becoming—
quickly, breathlessly,
becoming
—a real girl.