Beyond the Language of Sorrow

She lingers at the edge of the party, remembers how it all began. 

At first, she cried because when she was happy and smiled 
nobody came. Then it became a habit. Later it became stiff 
competition. My pain is greater than your pain which proves 
that I deserve to be loved. It’s simply how it was always done. 
The merchants in the marketplace wailing how their children 
will go hungry at this price—and still they are willing to sell you 
your own dreams at a ridiculously small cost. 

No, she is not lost. She knows exactly where she is, 
standing tall in her beautiful sorrow, trying to seduce indifference 
with a handful of exclamation marks. 
Eat this indifference and be grateful, they told her. 
There are those who do not even have this much. 
The situation reminds her strongly of lima beans: 
she likes them, but not enough to eat them. 

From time to time, eternity caresses her with amber wind. 
Hey, Star Stuff, it whispers. Chin up. She remembers how alien 
she felt right from the start with her frowned-on enthusiasm.
She hadn’t chosen the white dress. She hadn’t chosen the green grass. 
And her rebellious body sang somersault please. 

Ah, but watch her smile. She doesn’t have words for this yet, 
and it doesn’t matter now if anybody comes.

BEATE SIGRIDDAUGHTER

Beate Sigriddaughter (www.sigriddaughter.net) lives in Silver City, New Mexico (Land of Enchantment), where she was poet laureate from 2017 to 2019. Her poetry and short prose are widely published in literary magazines. Recent book publications include a poetry collection, Wild Flowers, and a novel, Soleil Madera.