Brigitte Goetze

Any real change implies... the end of safety.
-- James Baldwin

I stroke with my pencil hands and feet,
follow the curve of breasts and hips;
I fancy faces,
drawn by the desire
to see truly.

I stretch my shoulders,
court my muscles
like the moon woos the sea,
hoping to release pearls
grown around an irritation.

I tune my voice,
slack from lack of use,
filled with a violin´s longing for the bow,
to sound out
the depth of my heart.

And yet—
when the first light
caresses my closed lids,
I cover my eyes,
unwilling to forgo
the warm womb of my sleep.