She hates them – those glass women who might be shattered but not stained. Whereas she’s unfired clay and can be pinched or smudged by any man. Impertinently pure, they hurled their own torn out tongues, trampled dragons, cracked spikes, blinded, burned – she curls up in a ball, breasts intact, beasts unbraved. Really, what would it have meant to be ‘saved’? To remain a shard of winter, a splinter of sun, instead of the girl who gingerly steps around it, thinking if I were dead?
Hilary Biehl’s poems have appeared in Shot Glass Journal, Liminality, Mezzo Cammin, and elsewhere. She lives with her husband and their son in Santa Fe, New Mexico.