jane

i can't write, i feel weighty.

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.