deepundergroundpoetry.com

A woman in Britain (1)

born

concave to the brain
from brilliant women
who knew
no better
or so I'd say to protect their pride their eternal prison their unfaltering belief it was perfection

It was false. The movements were caught, captured and circling under the toes of the people who had to force their escape.

There is breathing and then there is believing that your each breath is worth as much
as the fellow beside you
that your existence does not deserve to be put down
to 'quirk', 'mad', 'weak' to feed another's need
for a definition of their own
'normal'.

These movements have been caught, captured, circled beneath my toes, and I've been tired
for saying nothing -
not casting the stones
that were lost
in a wash
I put on.

In a room full of light, photographs of our sights, bleedings of teaching we experienced,
there are blanks where there should be overflowing spaces.

I kiss his head, wipe her brow in feasting dreams, where I'm Mother, no alternate purpose
laid claim
by expectation
of a woman
once desperate to be.

crumpled
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published | Edited 16th Oct 2015
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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