May I ?
after Daughter by Deana Lawson

The need to take flight, to escape out of the room;
like stillness wasn’t enough; like pain entered the flesh,
a marking, a signal.
And standing there, waiting for whatever, cloaked in silence,
and all the ways the body can be emptied of its meanings
and anyway, not caring, not wanting,
caught in the texture of the day.
Hours pass through the skin and the light burrows itself
into the room, and to be standing there,
hoping for an embrace that won’t come,
the torturous ache of it,
the head as if expanding.
The tiredness that draws the girl inwards,
the boredom of it all, and she is still standing there
wanting suspension,
flight,
the thrill of the chase.
This Is About Sorrow

It is humiliating to be reduced to whatever it is
the stare means;
undone and yet solidly there
we’re talking about the memory of the body,
the numbness
slowly blurring whatever surrounds her.
She isn’t out of place, and yet,
she’s frightened
what could happen in seconds
what could be snatched&ripped
and her mind cannot conceive
that she could be drawn
to despair,
waiting on bended knees,
a prayer without hope.
Her daughter has been playing with her hair,
and now, right this instant, she
can’t breathe.
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