Slashing her thumb,
Sylvia turned her skin into the onion
She meant to pare.

She peeled herself open in a poem.
A callow Eve looking for knowledge,
I read that verse many times.
I splashed in the blood,
Rubbed the white flesh.
Her courage stunned me.

Years and poets later,
I pick up the knife
To hack the tiers of my existence.

I slice to the empowering birth of my son.
He made me feel part of a miracle.
I cut at the hardened vein of self-doubt
Formed by measuring my success
Against masters, not peers.
Opening like tombs of Russian dolls
Down to the solid heart,
I realize the wrappings
Are what matter.

Copyright © 2000 President and Fellows of Harvard College.
All rights reserved. Comments. Last modified Fri, Oct 6, 2000.