Self Portrait Poem by Amy Sutton

She is female, generally.
For the most part innocuous,
But holding cheekbones and bottle glass eyes out
As tokens of beauty:
Her unearned trophies.

She deserves no special treatment;
There is no celebration for her minority of one;
She lives in a bounty for the frugal soul,
And is encouraged not to dream beyond
Pre-assigned ambitions.

She works no harder than she needs to,
And has perfected the ancient art
Of procrastination.
She pays her way in smiles and good will;
For now, it pays out.

She patches herself with fragments of those around her,
And colours her cheeks with their moods.
She pockets mundane moments,
And for her amusement burnishes them
Until their light sparks fires.

She laughs like a child, speaks like a man,
And dances like a woman.
To learn the truth, she lies to herself,
And dresses up her findings in colourful metaphors.
She writes like bandaging a wound.

She scatters dead men’s teeth,
But has no faith to read their signs.
Words hook in her heart
But she cannot make them sit in her mouth.
She is played in her own dreams by someone else.