I look up at the mountain

her face is turned away

in my hands I have nothing

at the top there is no extravagance

at the top there are no prizes

at the top there is no praise

but there is permission

to breathe the air for my lungs

the woman who doesn’t have to beg

the child mother who lived — the writer with readers

at the top there is me

I look up at the mountain

her face is turned away

in my hands I have nothing

I see the other kinds of women reaching the top

with their ropes

with their battle-ax

with their people pulling them up

I move forward

“You were born different,” says my father

pulling me back

my mother worries

I look up at those women

in my hands I have nothing

I see their blonde hair blowing against the wind

Fine

I’m fine
when I can’t control
how much my voice bothers you
I’m fine
walking around your bad mood
the eggshells
don’t hurt
so bad

I’m fine
when I speak
and speak
and ask questions
of your silence

Fine fine fine
when your eyes
bounce to everything
that is not me
back to your phone
even when 
I am alive
and I think that I am beautiful
sitting here
in front of you

I’m fine
when suddenly the sky
is how it should be for you
the air is perfect
the traffic is light
the crowd isn’t so bad
the line I told you would not be long
isn’t
and finally you look at me
and take my hand

I’m fine
when the cafe I forced you to eat at
turns out to be better — than your better 
judgement
and you were able to find parking
and the waitress is nice
and all the other patrons are
not bothering
and I checked on the kids
and I left them what they needed
and the stars aligned
and and and
And
I’m fine
when suddenly
after all of that
you
turn to
me
and realize
you love me

It’s Not Your Fault, Babe