I wished that woman would write and proclaim this unique empire so that other women, other unacknowledged sovereigns, might exclaim: I too, overflow; my desires have invented new desires, my body knows unheard of songs.
Hélène Cixous
. . .
You need to reach down and touch the thing that’s boiling inside of you and make it somehow useful.
Audre Lorde
“The Cactus Flower” by Anonymous
_________________________________________________________
She built her wings
out of her cage
fashioned them carefully
from ribs of iron
each rib stripped patiently
rivet by rivet
then reshaped to bend in the wind
no wax was added
she did not need Icarus
to tell her this
fabric instead
patches from
the quilts of her Grandmothers’ resourcefulness
stitched with the precision of her Grandfathers’ hands
she built her wings
out of her cage
scrap by scrap
laced them until
they were fine sturdy things
and then she stood
on the roof of what was left
spread them open
and flew
“What Does My Art Mean to Me” by Karel Sloane-Boekbinder
_________________________________________________________
Words are my rebellion. I write what aches, what burns, what survives. If it doesn’t feel, it doesn’t belong.
Gyslaine Uwacu Nsabimana
“Paper Waves” by Anonymous
_________________________________________________________
Imagine sucking the blossom,
subtle taste of grape.
She’s dreamed lovers entwined
and misses her husband.
Pale morning light drives her
to the garden where robins pull
red earthworms from the ground.
They look confused. It’s colder
than the sun had promised.
Who grafted these flowering trees,
one branch white popcorn fluff,
the other screaming pink?
The gardener says whoever plants
that way, no matter who she is,
does not understand how branches rub
forcing sores that won’t heal.
Two days ago she spotted
pre-pubescent buds and felt restraint.
She knows what early plucking does,
how deep roots grow in winter’s
frozen ground. But after days of rain
she strays to pick lilacs. Neighbors
nod forgiveness. They know
who brings them Spring.
“Persephone Picks Lilacs” by Paula Sergi
Can you fathom the spectacle that would be created if we moved together, close enough to touch? That is WAVES.
