weighted. with obstacles
and sad things of other
people. i'm reading so much
i might be swallowed up
whole by charlotte bronte
herself. in pages and pages
of goodness. my hair is
crunchy and grainy and
curling strangely and looking
at a photo of a long haired
muse i desired for my locks
back again but hold, strong,
like jane eyre i will not
recount my loss for what
i have gained. twisting
the knots in my hair and
rubbing the sleep from my
softened eyelids i wake,
still dreaming and holding
my lover close, i breathe.
trapped in a room on the
day of my supposed
freedom i know no more
than to read, to write, to
daydream of nothing at all.
to listen intently on the
sleet from my window
and hope he comes back to
me again. seeking solace and
change and better things
always and learning things
always. scraping up images
of harvey milk and susan b.
anthony and sylvia plath and
booker t. washington those
good people to smile at me
tell me we did it you can
do it too. courage, sister,
for the long road continues
on. try harder, live better,
patience. a transformation
from dirty hair to crown of
jewels, from modest flirtatious
eyes beneath a fan - a soliloquy
of fiery passion and importance.
thinking about beautiful hands
etched by alfonse mucha and
what, maybe, those hands
might have made.
