Women

Posted: July 19, 2015 in Guest Writers

beka

Rebekah Moon

My sister’s daughter tried to take her life.
I don’t know where to,
only that the sun was shining in ignorance,
quiet in its sky a million miles away, and she
swallowed her desire thirty-two times.
Over. Over.
With persistence.
Like some kind of journey.
Like déjà vu.
She was trying to be so very full,
emptying silence, emptying boxes
that would be neatly stacked.
Full of a grammar all her own,
her throat had no idea she was trying to kill it.

My sister announced that she only loved girls.
She made four babies while pretending
she did not.
Denial isn’t only water in Egypt.
It is mother, and lover, and cannot
get out of bed.
But the womb doesn’t care
whom the heart beats for.
It bleeds and it grows without needing to know.
So she wrote this down and cast it away with abandon.
A message strapped to a bird.
A surrender to the army outside the wall.
A labour of truth she was trying to push out.

Because here, we lift our dresses
against the flood.
We set ourselves alight, and
feel the salt in our veins.
We are war, and soft skin,
apple cores, brown eyes.
We are women:
the word that is spoken
when no other can be said.

So outside, where the people move about
–in cars, on legs, on ideas, in smoke–
there are sirens, and alarms.
Again, and then again.
The sun is indifferent.
It is blind,
and doesn’t care if we are human or not,
doesn’t care what we try to kill.
It lights us up without ever needing to know.
And in here, there is cold,
a frigid hand between window and wall,
as my mother breathes next to me;
deep, low,
each exhale a prayer.

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Comments
  1. johncoyote says:

    Reblogged this on johncoyote and commented:
    Powerful and true words, thoughts by a outstanding writer. Please read her words and thoughts.

  2. johncoyote says:

    Some topic leave us weak. This is one. A powerful poem my friend. Left the reader with something to think about.

  3. syl65 says:

    Riveting words.

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