JOANNA WHITE

TO THE STORY GIRL

She surely rose to magnificent heights
of insane fury of effort bred of her terror
of me. — William Carlos Williams

The doctor painted your portrait
in words: golden locks, fever’s flush.
He told how you clawed
at his eyes, knocked glasses
from his face to keep him
from knowing your truth ––
your throat coated
in scarlet. Prying
your clenched teeth,
he thrust the stick,
which you splintered.
Your mother shook
you by the arm. Pinning
you down, your father heard
your shriek, loosened his grasp.
I wanted to climb
into the pages. I wanted
you to tell me how you came
to have a voice.