When you posed/ with screams held open by upper and bottom lip/ did you know you’d be
jumping
How skinny was your grey and white mind, tilted
corner peeled
pressed into insignificant frame
&
gathered for Guggenheim possession
You were so desperate for moon, you dipped fingerprints in acid
&
burned one onto a building
francesca woodman
[where did the pain come from]
In Boulder, Colorado you broke into backyards
stole clothespin off laundry lines and dug them between
folds of your belly nipples ribcage
Francesca, you left all your body hair alone
[like me]
and your loneliness pushed you closer to art but
further from others
[me too]
You had a fondness for geometrics and mammaries
francesca woodman
And I have fallen in love with your right breast, perhaps
because it has been upstaged by your left.
And the trees
thin and long like you
In New Hampshire, you hide with stones and forest
align feminine to outdoor breathing
/
In Rome, you hung from door frames
haunted exits
reflected angels into puddles of gravel and dust
hid from calla lily too large
to approach
for inhale
Aimee Herman 