She was not ugly; she was not beautiful.
Skinny, with a scarf that covered her face
when she rushed at night slinking by a fence.

When she smiled, her left cheek revealed
a birthmark, or maybe hid it. The men
who lived up on the hill knew her.

Her neighbors watched her gate,
the stealthy steps of summer, and counted
months for each of her three children.

The last one, blonde, with curly hair,
looked nothing like her mother
or her siblings. Whom she looked like

was her Godfather, who had held
the candles at her wedding, the valley
blossoming with gossip and gossamer.

–Lucia Cherciu,
Circe’s Lament:
Anthology of Wild Women Poetry
(Accents Publishing)