by Mercedes Lawry
You bruised girls under a restless sky,
don’t ask for retribution. Rain-drenched,
sorry queens of catastrophe, going all high
and figurative, decide how you’ll be
in front of the crowd of liars and pretenders,
bending your elbows, shooting out your hips.
Girls, clutch at power while the sweat crawls down
your necks and you slide under cover, sassing out
alliances and probable cause.
Hair swinging, take that language
putting you in negative space and spit it
back. You girls, heading one way or another,
with little time to decide, love those hallelujahs,
grab sweet and smear it on your face, play true,
bury the bashing and stand up, unflinching,
though you’ve been rassled and stomped.
You girls, become whole and solid, untouchable,
ready to fly and make noise, yourselves,
yourselves.
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