The tin woman

the tin woman is not deity nor queen no fist no flower she does not have limbs nor does she rotate round her ball frame she is not pearl held in the hand squeezed and released back on broken flint made firm and her skin does not peel off to reveal under the silver sap something liquid clean peach she is not beauty shimmering terminal guise not steel framed not lashes of copper not buttoned not brushed nor tresses of wire lean that I or you or he or they unbraid and baby she does not say just borrow my face or please (she cannot speak) I just need you to love me for she this made thing written and crafted unbuild waits for the sunset’s long fingers of light to burn away the scars from the end of well-meaning slurs for the unneed of having to mask and bake self into box gadget and rig it always the brown clay in ware