This Thing, Woman

by Rebecca Zimmerman

This thing,


is a frightening thing. 

She grips me pins me alone

inside this glass box

This woman thing breaks me.

Or am I a broken woman?


This thing,


My body is no prison

but the mythos of it is.

I feel cursed with the ‘blessing’

of the gift to give life. 

I am haunted by the ghosts of

children I never want,

the father I will never make. 

This woman thing breaks me.


This thing,


I am lifted by her glory and power.

I am thrilled by her kiss and her touch.

But the rest of her, some untouchable woman

is a weight in my breast.

She is my wing and my chain,

my key and my abattoir. 

This woman thing breaks me.


This thing, woman,

is not who I am.

I hold her form, and stand on her shoulders,

but she died within me when the glass box shattered.

Or she never lived there,

and was only a twisted reflection.


Rebecca Zimmerman is a higher education professional and reporter, and in her free time is a runner, writer, baker, coffee enthusiast, and activist. She lives in Brooklyn, NY with her partner and two cats, Clara and Hermione.