The Three

An incantation of unfinished selves

I am the unwanted ––
the three,
the late-born, imperfect:
the mother, the maiden, the crone,
trapped in one body,
unfinished.

I am the unwanted ––
the maiden,
her joy unrealized,
caught in memory of what was,
what might have been ––
a wasteland of possibilities.

I am the unwanted ––
the mother,
surrounded by defecation, dirt,
and unconditional, uncontrollable love:
soft cheeks, warm hearts,
poisoned by vengeful tongues.

I am the unwanted ––
the crone,
decrepit –– decaying within,
wrinkles gathering without.
The mind overworked,
the heart withered before its time.

I am the unwanted ––
the alone.
None of us became
what was wanted.
The bells never rang,
yet choirs were forced to sing.

I am the unwanted ––
the maiden,
screeching my vocal cords
like the scraping of strings on a violin ––
to deaf ears.
Still trying to join childhood.

I am the unwanted ––
the mother,
in a period without end –– this love:
unconditional, uncontrollable, unbearable.
So I seek joy in pages, in writing ––
trying to join adulthood.

I was born ––
the crone.
Perhaps that is why the comb

dragged through my hair,
lightened it, as if I could be kept a maiden.

Trying to keep me a maiden ––
while I was still a maiden.
You must have known.

I was born old.