I Am Woman

crystals

I am Woman.

I shouldn’t need to roar

to be heard. My

‘no’

shouldn’t

require legislation,

nor my value

be

equated with

my measurements.

My safety should not depend

on what I chose to wear, or where I

choose to walk, but on the simple fact that

I am

woman.

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Then You Walked By

march-iceHe was desert.

I, so thirsty, swallowed sand

Until I mummified.

He was iceberg.

I, so frozen, craved his warmth

Til all was numb inside.

Then You walked by –

Waterfalls and rip-tide seas

That made these cracked lips burn.

Summer Sunburst

Melted rivers, carved new clefts,

Uncovered long-dead urns.

And oh! the pain

As figments of sandcastles

Collapsed beneath my toes.

And oh! the ache

As Light revealed the chaos

I’d buried deep with snow.

You are water.

I, so thirsty, drink You in,

Til my cup overflows.

You are Sunshine.

I, so frozen, snuggle deep,

And Your arms hold me close.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Laundry

You made this bed of nails I lie in.

A skewered butterfly,

addition to your

collection,

I swallowed hook, line, and linen.

But this is 2016.

It’s time

to change

the sheets.

 

A Stand-Up Routine

pine tree

 

It will take more than a chiropractor

to straighten her out.

When life’s bones are this brittle, misaligned,

misplaced, walking with

a limp is the least of her worries. Her

backbone has been broken more times than she

can count; self-splinting

has bred tendons spliced to indifferent

saviours, treacherous

lovers bent on abandonment. Self-doubt

leaches confidence

as surely as osteoporosis

saps strength and posture;

she raises tentative fingers, branches

clawing heaven’s door,

straining against the scoliosis scars

to grasp a sliver

of the blue she’s always known she can reach

if she stands up tall.

 

 

Far From the Tree

appleblossomkeyhole.jpg

 

When Apple first fell

from the Tree, she bobbed

along on her sea

of forgetfulness,

oblivious to

the bruises on her

backside, pockets of

pus hidden by a

polished red skin. She

named her world Stunning,

and made plans to suit.

.

Tucked in the shadow

of those gnarled roots, her

gnarled senses labelled

sickly vapours ‘air’,

decomposition

‘bed’, insect-breeding

swamp ‘home’. Belonging

lulled feelings into

a caricature

of the love she read

about in novels.

.

But the day she rolled

outside canopy

limits, beyond the

reach of Eden’s bite,

sun-seared retinas

peeled the picture bare –

twisted trunk and sour

fruit and warped world-view

became as glaring

as raw contusions.

.

Now she rolls, rolls, rolls,

far from the madding

shroud, far from the reach

of branches carved like

talons from deformed,

wormy wood. Far from

the Tree, in a patch

of pure light on grass

greener than life, she

sows a single seed.

 

 

Ingesting Light

daisy-bright.jpg

 

Born in the darkest of alleyways,

she was laid in a box, in rags,

the body which expelled her

too cavernous in its own need

to hear her starving heart

break. Abandonment gets

in your DNA, they say –

cripples the soul, twists

the bloom  – but deep calls

to deep, innocent

instinct spawned in

unholy soil.  She raises

her head to the sun,

ingesting Light.

The Nudge of the Refugee

pink-lily-bud.jpg

 

Taught to remain dead from the womb,

she walks among tombs, whitewashed

crypts concealing skeletal remains

of 1,000 generations, closets clammy

.

and fungal. She bites the apple

of her ancestors which, ever since

Newton wed Granny Smith, dictates

a hard fall. The System says, ‘Stay! Be

.

at home with Depravity, shake hands

with Despair! Dry bones can but rattle,

dead men can but dance.’ But she feels the

nudge of the Refugee, the rebellion of

.

soiled skin; when she opens her eyes

to Truth, she finds her mantle is but a

rented chrysalis. When they take the final

tally, her casket will be an empty husk,

.

with hinges rusted like dry blood, an

apple seed rooted through its temple.

Laughing at Gravity, she will rise

on the wings of the dawn, emancipated.

 

.