Polished Wife


  • Natalie Corthésy


Don’t look. Listen.
I am sleeping inside
a ceiba tree with a ram goat tied to its trunk,
dreaming I am a double skinned drum.

Eager to be the dream catcher
I dare to move up from here.
Drifting through emotional storms and lightning tongues,
I rise.

Limbs lifting husband,
roots feeding children until my branches bend.
Austerity imbues me until I become
the drummer and the strummed.

Nobody sees me as the polished wife
who outgrew her forest,
nor the goat as my companion
with whom I am evenly yoked.

Everyone wants to be buried at my feet
shelter unfurled, memories etched in the bark of my skin.
I am a brand new second hand bass
wailing, heavy rhythm exhaling into the ear.