I’ll be the woman in white
on the edge of the trees
it’s windy and you’ll
have to squint to see
am I there or is it a wisp
of cloud blown off
into bare branches.
Don’t remember me.
I’m burying my toes
in rich soil hoping the clippings
will grow.
I’d rather be known
as a birch tree, white bark
peeling while children come
to play and draw
crude monsters
on the back of my skin.
Caitlin Jackson Poetry 