#125 – Woman Fifty Two

truth

Her testimony was real because it was the truth.

Her confrontation was powerful because it was honest.

 

Believe the women.

Charge the liars.

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#124 – Woman Fifty One

blur

She accepted his invitation into the room,
hidden away from the party,
because she liked him.

He closed the door,
threw her on the bed with such
force, her body bounced into the air.
In an instant his heavy body had pinned her down,
his hands groping, pulling, pushing.

She fought back punching, kicking, scratching.

Screaming.
No, this is a silent memory.

She found the door, but his
ugly hands seized her again,
slammed her against the wall.

The battle continued until her small
body escaped his release, fled down the steps
and out the front door.

Through tears, she watched the green beads from
her grandmother’s necklace shatter across
the sidewalk.

She clutched her throat, her chest, her belly
– held her body tight to prevent
her insides from breaking across
the hard concrete.

At school on Monday morning,
the popular girls whispered that
she had made it all up.

She stopped telling her story.

#123 – Woman Fifty

flesh_ptg1

There is sadness in her eyes that she attempts

to hide, but we can see it through her long stares.

 

There is anger in her throat that she tries to silence,

although we can hear it snarled in her words.

 

There is exhaustion at the end of

each breath. She tries to exhale it away,

except we feel it in her sigh.

 

There is history, strength and beauty in her

skin, impossible to conceal.

#122 – Woman Forty Nine

hands_veins

Pale blue lines map stories up and down her forearms,

traverse her thighs.

 

She is gently take care of what’s left,

assembling a justification,

while recalling warm breezes blowing

through the long hairs across her shins and calves.

 

Like the dark tangles under her arms,

these shadows were not suitable to be seen.

 

Thick grey veins drawn under thin skin bulge from her hands

like old explanations.

 

They’ve always been evident but were never part of the plan.

 

These are not such delicate tales.

#121 -Woman Forty Eight

pink.jpg

She is in process.

Her straight, thin, orange hair has grown past her waist.
Her long dark curly hair frames her round face.
Her pale freckled skin and small dark eyes have transformed.
Her large hands sparkle with pink nails speckled with silver glitter.

In a short black dress and high heels, her voice betrays her,
for now.

Bearing witness to modifications that unite an exterior image with
a genuine interior self. She is all courage.

A true being, being true.

#120 – Woman Forty Seven

distortion

“The truth was so fast. You had to squint. It was occurring to her in strange and swift seconds of vision that her communication with the world, that secret atmosphere that she was cultivating around herself like a darkness, was her final existence – beyond that border she herself was silent like a thing.”

Clarice Lispector

#119 – Woman Forty Six

skin

Full and round and rose.
Press into the fleshy thigh, the plump arm,
the full cheek and the pink will bounce back.
She is powerful in her skin.

Like a marble sculpture, hard and defined.
Flesh wraps tightly around muscle.
Strength realized through sweat and tears.
She is powerful in her skin.

Draped as thin fabric across bone.
Flesh detaches from the muscle.
Wrinkles are her inscriptions of experience and time.
She is powerful in her skin.

#118 – Woman Forty Five

Dark waters1

She is these dark waters,
without emptiness for light or air to seep in.

She eats everything,
then circles round for more.

Sharp white teeth fill a gaping red mouth.

Swimming in the same black waters
that fill her up, she dives deep and surfaces.

Dives deep and surfaces.

Suffering this insatiable hunger,
she bears a constant struggle to
feed her self-absorbed question,
“why me?”

Summer waves fall lightly, blue-green, salty.

But her waters swirl violently.

They will either be calmly stilled,
or,
build a gradual yet powerful vortex
and
eventually,
pull her under.

#117 – Woman Forty Four

saltscape

As she presses the door open, her body is met with a

surge of heat releasing itself from the dark room.

The evening sun is low, but temperatures have risen.

 

She enters, observes the salt.

Just days ago,

transparent crystals shimmered like

a field of false diamonds.

 

And now, unexpectedly they

have disintegrated into a soft, vague snowfall.

 

The bright white forms crumble at the touch,

defying her attempts to coax them into a new landscape.