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Building Holes

November 11, 2016

Weaving through weeping women,

Waste not; want.

Burrowing in our blankets, we paint curtains closed;

We dream of rain. We wish the sun away.

The echoes of our grandmothers in our ears,

We crawl across the floorboards.

With each flutter of hot water,

The pot approaches a boil,

And we click for solidarity,

Engaging purposefully,

Plotting small acts.

 

Hovering above our bodies,

Souls in flight,

Racing for sanctuary.

The empty cement pool of love,

Drained of possibilities.

Men, broken, build blockades

Walling themselves in.

We ignore them,

This isn’t their time.

They are bobbleheads on bodies full of blood,

But something is missing. The spark plug dull,

The power turned off.

This isn’t their time.

We claw, with manicured fingernails,

Tearing the walls down with our fear.

Racing toward the sky, halted beneath the

Ceiling. Prodding at the glass with sewing needles,

Barely making a dent.

We fall, our wings iridescent in the sun,

The light from the other side,

The glowing light on the other side of the dome,

Igniting our power, turning our needles to knives,

Our shoulders into wings,

Our eyes into emeralds,

Our fingernails to talons.

We claw our way back to the top,

We tap on the glass, gently,

For fear of lacerations. No broken glass

Falling to the earth. No footsteps halted

In shards of agony.

Our wings flutter in the light of the moment,

And our knives puncture the surface

As we realize it is not glass at all,

But plastic,

 

We know plastic.

The fanfare dissipated,

The shatter a memory,

But the holes get bigger every day

And our wings glow brighter

And we see the other side,

And it isn’t all beautiful,

And it isn’t all easy,

 

But it is ours.

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