~ Esther Mitchell, 2015~
Silent, she sits,
Her body is a drum held quivering,
A beat hangs ready to pound from her mouth,
A booming clap, like thunder off the canyon.
Her words are a weapon,
Forged to draw her own blood,
Not lines on a map or stains on a battlefield,
She offers up her own blood,
Her own flesh,
Says “Hear me, for I am the body you’ve forsaken.”
Every life into this world is bathed in her blood,
Every life out, in her tears,
Oceans filled with her weeping,
Until the world is pulled under,
Gasping against her unwitting vengeance.
Her heart pulses with fire,
Shoots sparklers into the night sky,
Bathes the heavens in white-hot lightning,
Dances the night sky with streamers of light,
Until her frenzied celebration slips into the dawn,
Peels back the curtain to embrace bright heat,
Unwilling to be thwarted by its burn.
This is the birthright trapped within every woman,
Which frightens men to violence,
Trying to tame that which refuses to be anything but wild.