Never Immaterial

If you build women out of wicker,
entwining their woven heads with oak,
their lips soft with poison ivy,
eyes stained by crushed blackberry,
why are you surprised to watch them wither in winter,
their fat, braided bodies shrinking to skeleton?
They need sap to keep them warm.

If you build women out of glass,
fitting shards into a glittering whole,
their breasts mismatched bowls,
expressions only as their cloudy flaws,
why are you surprised when they slash and are smashed,
their feet breaking off each time they dance?
They need space to keep brittle, not broken.

If you build women out of cloth,
stitching seams stuffed with sawdust,
their hair hanks of rough yarn,
skin dyed in streaky patches that clash wildly,
why are you surprised when they droop and flop,
slithering to the floor before you can purse your lips?
They need bones to stand on their own.

If you are building women at all,
why are you surprised to fail?
They need to see love before they can give it.