Liberty

I.

I appear,
small and diminutive,
in an anointing oil, painting
the doorframes with crosses,
a jeweled and ornamental
collection: a fragile petal
in the darkness,
solemn perfume.

Hundreds upon hundreds
cross my threshold,
under the majestic
white pillars, and everything
I do and say
has consequence to the poor.

II.

The government’s dictation of
procedure, due sanctimonious
speech, address, and law
signifies the end of anarchy
to sit in squalid prison cell.

Rebellion with a saucy tongue
spent itself in cheap jewelry
and gaudy lipstick,
outspoken with resentment,
unwanted, bereft,
ill-willed.

III.

The ugly mold of society
without enlightenment
and teacher to hasten
diligence, cast
a lectern of parental neglect,
morbid insults,
death wishes,
cuttings and anorectic
hunger.

The black sky
without a star
lost streams of film
on the editing floor once,
and feminist scars succumb
to bitter years,
disownings,
stonings for sin.

IV.

The angry mob
became indifferent,
sauntered away,
tears blinded the eyes of
nonchalant youth,
children without a name
hounded the high-end
fashion stores,
gaunt and tapered.

She asked for a set
of pearls,
an embroidered dress,
warm cotton towels,
and hot milk.

Tall and strong,
no one decided
her fate, and all alone
she was practiced
at modern conversation,
comforting
the infirm and lonely,
planting the daffodil bulbs
in the flower beds,
one by one.

V.

When you are free,
the world will not offer its restraint,
but the doors of heaven
take you in as orphans
to a mother’s table.

When you are free,
your face unshadowed,
your delicate grace
will move a nation,
from shame to birth.

When you are free,
you shall be free within;
no prison release,
nor hospital walkabout
for these seven angels
will touch them like a coal.

VI.

When I am in pain,
tortured, writhing under
torn leaf, and bloodied flower;
sincere conscience, guilt
amending itself
by ritual fear.

My hands in chains,
my paper-white gown,
translucent, and vacant
heart, beating and afraid.

I bow my head
and close my eyes,
quiet and modest,
simple and harbinger
of change for injustice:
any dream.

VII.

Within me,
there is a place
the clock beats
and minute by minute,
I match my own dance—
my feet,
bruised and bleeding,
until, I am like a swan,
beautiful.

Under the pressure
of the white and black dance
of pieces on a chessboard,
where I am
the measure of pathos,
carrying the sorrow
of others that encircle me,
I am the bearer of the dance
to a darkened world.

Light. Darkness.
I move through the universe;
I stand in the shadows,
touch the ground
in bitterness and death,
but rise;
a tomb will never be
my resting place.

VIII.

I sing and the world
will hear my song—
ramparts made of stone:
canticle of morning,
opening its arms.

To be most like freedom,
I am in chains, unworthy;
a sea beneath the moon,
calculating the labor pains
of each month, lashing the shore,
suffering humility at disease,
and death, to a watery grave.

Softened, carried away
by the horse that rides
into the distance,
I fear the separation
of our souls,
the lack of words
to heal and bind us;
I am silent
at the years between us,
in anarchy.

And the pen that
will never be silent,
will never forget—
I will never forget
Liberty, as long as my heart
beats a thunderstorm
lighting up the sky.