She is born with broken
shackles on her feet
broken—
but shackles.
Born dragging her symbol self up the pedestal stair,
iron rings clawing her ankles
like fingernails of a clinging child
begging.
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
unencumbered view
and coddled
as she outgrows spasm by spasm
her birth.
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
don't blink.
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
full form.
Back to A Woman in Pieces Crossed a Sea