For her
The woman who brings flowers to ornament your hair, Wakes up every other night with pain she cannot bear Of nightmares, of illusionary figures, of torn clothes with none to wear, Her panic struck eyes has not a tear, For hopes to forget are drowned by fury and fear. And they’d once told her, “Time heals, oh dear!” One lazy breezy afternoon, as you sit in the cane chair swinging, Your little sister squeezes herself next to you, Half-real, half-spun, break-free, detail-oriented narrations anew, “Is my chest bigger than it should be? The man in the park says so.” And I believe you don’t hush her then, For god forbid, It might be too late when you realize she’s old enough to be educated. On a tuesday night, after a long, weary day at work, Heading home is a self-made, dignified woman, with not a shirk Awaiting her are predators, who, on a day of luck, cut off with catcalling. You like to believe you live in a safe and beautiful world, and so do I. Well