Poetry

The Story

We be sisters, in the curve of our hip, the flutter of a hand, the speeding stars in the         sweeping houses.
Time weaves us together in semi-helical measure.

Our mother’s footsteps hide beneath a grassy plain.
Cycles of the moon draw us together, apart, adrift, alone.

We be sisters in blood and sinew, passion and pain, the birth of our children.
The earth shakes our breasts, spears our bones, spins our futures.

Our fathers’ shadows web our dreams.
Deserts dwell in our fingertips.

We be sisters packing our bags, leaving the menfolk, melting the sugar.
Children watch us from half-closed doors.

Wild horses ride our edges.
Dusky air quilts the space between us.

We be sisters in the knowing smile, the backward glance, the unspoken word.
Winds whisper well-worn secrets in our ears.

Chinese men painted the sky with gunpowder.
English men invented the guns.

But women understood the story early on.
We are now, always have, and will again:

be sisters.