No, we are the women of all women.
We are waiting for America to change,
we are still walking.
Give us a book, we’ll read it like a man,
Our opinions speak for themselves.
We don’t rhyme often,
but when we do, take notice.
Because we drink whiskey shots off table tops.
We make your mothers blush.
and we scream:
"Viva La Revolución, baby!" and dance
with one fist in the air.
Because we know that change doesn’t begin with a legislation,
but in us.
Reconstruction isn’t in bombs, but in love.
Not in the straight-backed pews, but on the streets.
We are the breath, the heartbeat of the world.
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
There is just no way you are the pine-scented air.
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
Variations on the Word Sleep
By Margaret Atwood
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
Each tear shed was an anvil tied around the string of my heart. I've only known my father to cry twice in my life. Once when my brother Timmy died... but that was simply a story told to me by our family pastor; simply hearsay, but it haunted my pastor too, to see my stoic father in agony over Timmy's death. The pastor said that was something he would never forget--indeed it is. The second time was when I was about nineteen: I was coming out of a severally rebellious stage, which had driven a wedge between my father and myself. One fateful night, he simply gathered me in his arms and told me he loved me. It was as if a scene from some Hallmark movie had lifted its skit and crossed the TV's threshold into our living room, because he held me a sobbed.
Now I'm not against tears, a few tears now and then is a healthy thing. Tears of pain, tears of joy are one thing-- but tears of desperation, tears of fear are something completely different. I've never known my father not to have things together, not to have an answer.
That is what scares the shit out of me.
In retrospect, I realized that there was only one person I wanted to talk to, one person I wanted to share this with, my fears and anxieties... that person I've placed as far from my life as can be. That person is a non-existent blip on my radar screen. I don't want to be the person without anyone to share a life with.
I was not meant to be alone.