Green Girl

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The pull, the blood, the cry.

The agony of becoming.

I gaze down upon her. She is without form, and void, and darkness upon the face of the deep. Cast in the likeness of her creator. I give birth to an orphan girl.

Now I must name her. Ruth. A hopeful name. No, maybe not Ruth. Perhaps Julie or Kathy. Aah, that’s it. Julie or Kathy. No, no. Ruth. She is a Ruth. She is Ruth.

I can’t see her. I squint, steady: nothing. I cannot resurrect her. Who is this girl?

I look at a Diane Arbus photograph of a young Mia Farrow. Perhaps this is Ruth. My actress. I try to trace her outline. I learn her curves. The slightest bit of flesh caught in between strap and armpit. The shadow of a line down her stomach, like a bisected butterfly. The slim arms and shoulders. The curve of hair arranged around her breast like a question mark. She is a question mark, a mystery, even to herself. The dark triangle her graceful legs make, toes pointed like a dancer’s.

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