She tied her red hair back with a black carbon ribbon
from the novel she abandoned that year .
Pain from the loss of her lover stained her
like the sudden death of a gifted wonder child.
She and They
Liberators
Protectors
Derisive Saints
Their cries for women
For the fruits of women
For less bodies hewn
and torn apart
It was just a skirmish
It was also a path
For Metropolitan women
Just like Neapolitan cream
layers flavored
brown white and cat eared pink
The wonder and the bleeding
Leading into faith
Into the mercies of love
But it was her she held
In the dark nights
And in the light of determination
Freeing Their Healing and Victory!
Now, her loss is terrifying.
Where are the rights they fought for?
Where was the comfort and shelter of the oppressed?
Why is the gulch sinking deeper?
Where, the hands across the waters?
Hands across the street?
Hands that now wash the laundry
Now, yes, eyes that grow with rusty sweat
Women of mourning
Yea, puppets of small men,
Despise these slings and arrows,
There is no defeat.
In the evening
At the sunset
let us cry,
Let them rest.
11/8/2022. Dedicated to L and K
<<<<<<<<<<<<
A write I started earlier this year has formed out to this. Most of my family, you know the reference material and this moves me greatly. I struggled to properly read it aloud to my wife. She likes it, knows what it means to me. Grief often keeps me quiet, this is an effort not to be so.
<<<<<<<<<<<<