by Renwick Berchild

They murmur beneath their breath
difficult woman,
obstinate girl,
they shout to my face
what a waste
of a body,
too much brain, such
hairy pits, uncombed hair,
sun charred face, tongue
too big for my mouth, can’t
let a thing be, curler
of the women’s tresses, the men’s toes,
toss my head back and laugh
I say
I’ve got
a war drum in my chest,
two strong dancer’s legs
and that horizon; how
could any red blooded creature
sit still in front of a mirror
with that world raging outside,
when books,
rustic paper,
fountain pens,
wild fields,
heathen gods
are all within my grasp.
it’s mine.


6 Comments to “Grasp”

  1. A strong, raw and powerful depiction.

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