"Untitled," Muriel Castanis, 1990. Cloth, epoxy.

There is wool over my eyes,
or linen,
or papier-mâché

And though it does not block
the light, I
leave it where it lays.

I am taken outside the limit
of my arms,
of my epoxy skin.

There are no stains, no blemishes
to suggest
imperfection.

As though I had bathed in buttermilk,
poured it over
my head and closed my eyes.

(This was when I still could see,
when I blocked out
sun and water on my own.)

I am flying, one hand outstretched,
the other
laid flat against my side,

as though I were making my way
through water,
through clouds, through deficiency

and deformity, through every freckle I could
have developed.
Not carved in marble--draped over air.

What they don't tell you about me,
about us,
is that our condition is common.

This ache in my back from holding still
is womanly.
The strength in my arm, held out

eternally, is a feminine strength.
The cloth sealed
across my eyes is a maidenly wound.