There has been much turmoil up to now, and there will be more still to come. Sabina Spielrein

Open the width of one eye, the curtains incite me. Should I hope for what I don't know?
My flesh is oven warm, curving, sloped. For what? I don't know.

Mine is an ordinary woman's face. Not long ago when I was ill I thought it hideous.
I sort myself out where I am not to be taught. Roped. For what I don't know.

"Why did I stand by the open window stripped to the waist? I did it with purpose
and blush to think of it now — how I indulged in this trope for what I don't know.

My body is both tool and tormentor. I bleed with its gruesome loneliness.
Unlike Hestia I am too easily bored. I hope — for what? I don't know.

At the Bergholzli a young analyst treated me for neurosis. Finished in two months time.
Test cases are always more fleeting, more intense, abodes for what we don't know.

Medical school is one more revolution fought for art and philosophy.
I aspire to be Aristotle with disciples round. We will probe for what I don't know.

Mother tells me, Sabina, one must honor the formalities. I am determined not to.
A Greek at heart, I wish to roam the world — a broad lope for what I don't know."