This is an ode to the woman who soaks her blood in used rags picked from the trash can at the end of my street.
The quick wit of her tongue emptied onto the blood-stained pavement, for five days straight,
Walked over and trampled,
Under the brutality of high-speed tyres,
And ritualistic fires burning in neglected homes.
This is an ode to the golden-brown of her skin melting under the liquid sunlight,
Like pancakes drowsed in maple syrup,
Sweetened until they are bitter and broken.
This is the for the woman who hasn’t yet spoken,
Or hasn’t yet been heard.
Who sits inside,
And bleeds onto used rags and old clothes,
And smiles.
Also read: Poetry: And You Ask Me, Am I Okay?