I could be undone
by hands
working like scissors
on a seam
that splits my spine
into many.
Arms working as thread
to keep
the right parts
together,
slipping the knots
beneath
the surface
to give me the look
of a lady.

Unknown to the eyes
that sweep my face
for discovery,
but those hands
find patterns
to thread
the heart.
Blueprint uncovered
by persistence
and
fired will.
The skill of a boy
undone
could ease a grudge
against
expectation.

Marie Lascu