A hyphen. I walk the plank between my two names
—call me Esther.
The Hebrew three-root letters mean to hide, hidden.
A song, repeated.
Of a woman beaten.
Because we never have to sing our own.
A half-truth: we are our fathers’ daughters.
Teach our hands their quiet ways.
A plate, an open mouth.
The gift of white shatter:
never having to say, I hate you.
A dream. I unscrew my skull,
dislodge the tape,
strew her ghost through the trees.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 6.
Catherine-Esther Cowie is a graduate of the Pacific University low-residency MFA program. Her writing has appeared in The Common, Poetry South, SWWIM, Potomac Review, Southern Humanities Review, Little Patuxent Review, TriQuarterly, West Branch Journal with work forthcoming in Rhino.See all items about Catherine-Esther Cowie
