Friday, 7 March 2014

That would be that

“But why shouldn’t I?”
she would scream
in a voice much,
much too loud
for indoors.

They wanted to quiet
her, and still her
swinging fists.
They wanted to
hold her down.

She knew this. It
engendered such rage
in her that she
thought her very
skin would burst,

like heavy fruit, hurled
against a wall, smashed
with the awful
hammer of the
unfairness of it all.

Her juice, or blood,
sticky and oversugared,
would spray their
white quiet and
that would be that.

But they would win
then; they would be
right if she let herself
explode before she
proved herself worthy.

They could clean up
the nasty, red mess
and forget the
whole sorry business
if she did that.

No, then. 

She must breathe
deep and spread her
arms wide, from where her
wicked, wonderful wings
would unfold, and that
would be that.

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