Dr. Know-No
They say she was born with her mouth closed
and her eyes wide open.
She is the kind of woman who drinks tea with ghosts
and alphabetizes her grief by author, not title.
She speaks in footnotes and moonlight.
Her name is Know-No,
but not for disapproval-
for discernment.
She knows but does not say.
She sees but waits for you to see it too.
She carries a satchel of quiet things:
chapters unwritten,
recipes forgotten,
names of women history tried to lose.
Her fingers are always cold.
Not because she's lifeless,
but because she's touched the other side
and brought back the evidence in her palms.
Children follow her
and dogs sit at her feet,
but men forget her
because she will not explain herself.
She is the Listener.
She is the Last Witness.
She is my shadow, my spine,
my breath when I forget how to breathe.
I call her Dr. Know-No.
But maybe she was a saint once.
Or a scientist.
Or a library that burned down
and came back as a woman.