She is born with broken
shackles on her feet
Born dragging her symbol self up the pedestal stair,
iron rings clawing her ankles
like fingernails of a clinging child
Concept is that child
clinging, begging to be lifted and held.
Begging for a story at bedtime
it's all right, tomorrow
is another day.
Lifted to her mother's shoulder's
as she outgrows spasm by spasm
Concept is her pocked face
scarred and blemished.
Her eyes don't blink, her eyes stare
despite the bright light
her lids are flaccid but her eyes
She is born from concept, pregnant possibility.
Born from herself in a contrived
circular way that coils
reason into contradiction.
Aghast and hardened she is born
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