who is she?
I hear her first
a faint little scream
the buzz of her wings as she tries to break free
from a web that was built for someone else
by someone else
invisible to some, but nevertheless
now holding her captive
He looks down from his lofty dwelling
slowly descending to devour his prey
she made it so easy for me
I can have her any way I like
because I’m powerful
and she shouldn’t have flown into my web
the drum of her wings intensifies
as loud as a F135 now
no one told her where he would be
no one told her how he spun it
I don’t know if she got up again
or died of exhaustion from fighting for her freedom…
Hi there, readers. If you didn’t notice, I took a break from writing for a few weeks. Or I should say, writing publicly. I did this because I wasn’t proud of the voice that was emerging in my words. It wasn’t hopeful. I wasn’t seeing the boundless beauty of my surroundings. Because let’s be honest, it’s gotten ugly out there.
I would love to say that something has changed for that perspective to shift, but it hasn’t. This week, I witnessed the small, winged friend in this poem hopelessly struggle in ways that may resonate with anyone who identifies as female. Or maybe not. Maybe poetry isn’t your cup of soup. Regardless,
I hope for a day when women’s voices are celebrated. When we are heard, not tolerated. When challenges to systemic problems are not seen as personal attacks. When there is equity in our country (and world) for people of any gender, sex, race, income level, geographic location, religious affiliation, profession, and age.
I don’t know if that will ever happen. Today, I’m full of doubts.
I’m grateful for the people who work day in and day out to move in that direction. I’m grateful for the people who take the brokenness and muck of the world as material to make people laugh. I’m grateful each time I learn how to be subversive with love. I’m grateful that I’m a woman.