Cocoon Hardening and Softening
by Malisa Garlieb
We’re walking home from Woolworth’s
when the man winks at me
and mom says flatly
she’s fourteen.
Entering eighth grade at six feet
my body cannot hide me.
So I slouch, wear drab
and stop talking altogether.
The sullen silence wears my neck
like nubby silk
torn from a sari and knotted.
My stutter—dear foe—
gave too much away.
Now stifled syllables calcify
as little stones in my stomach.
Each holding a word
that jumbles as I jump
into a poem
that reveals me once again.
Reprinted by permission from Handing Out Apples in Eden, by Malisa Garlieb, copyright 2014 (Wind Ridge Books of VT, 2014.)