Baby Jane, you are a girl-child-warrior.
If you look at him, his arrows will drop.
Now I know each time his shaft fell away: 
shards of stone left inside.
Each time he rolled the tombstone of his body
off of ours, we rose on our Lazurus legs 
without weeping.

We will tell this man we were dead before you shot.
The self rose above and waited. We were dead
so you never. You never. You never got in.
We were more powerful than you.
No matter we couldn't get away.
Our vocal cords wouldn't vibrate
for you. Our heart barely beat.
Even our brain, in its brilliance,
kept you out.
              Your face is gone.
Never was.

Though our muscles remember
your weight, we are strong, now,
stronger than your heavy ghost.
We are pushing everything you left inside
back out. We can say your name, now, almost
like any other name, but we won't.
Take your name and your empty face
and go. 
        No more will you open the tomb
of the child I was and enter in.
I will carry her, with thanksgiving,
for the life she died around
every time you tried to take
so she could give this life to me.

Because no one believed
what you didn't know
how to say, Baby Jane,
I didn't, either. Because he has no face,
because no one ever saw 
the dying place, I told you he wasn’t real.
I'm sorry, child I was. I am listening, now,
to the way you speak.