healed (poem)
(this is for the GenX warrior women I know. In particular you, Michelle and Danielle)
“If captured, never let them give you to the women.” — Spider Robinson
When a woman of a certain age
straps on a pair of heels,
it is either because she feels pretty
or she is going to war.
My money, frankly, is on war.
We’ve read all the studies
of shortened hamstrings (nothing new
reflect the stories of our lives in our bodies’ pain —
again) and bunions and
believe me, we’ve known this
for a long time
and when we don’t care about that anymore
you’d better believe we’re going to war —
these were after all the heels
that danced and cried and laughed
the Berlin wall to rubble
these were the heels fished out of a tree
in Lockerbie
these are the hands
that held hands
when AIDS could not even be slowed
worn to warn doctors
with a crisp ratatatat on the
bleach-washed linoleum floors
that THIS patient is not to be ignored
The heels that went up the stairs
of the World Trade Tower
forever only up.
These are the heels that herded
26 six-year-olds into a closet
for this-is-not-a-drill
for a woman of a certain age
strapping on a pair of heels
has never been a drill.
We see you checking
for the war paint,
measuring the inches
nod; wise child
I do not tell you these things so that
you can protect yourself —
that’s an exercise in futility
a lost cause
you are a single white scrap
waving in the storm
consider this the klaxon
the slamming of the door
we are done —
a signal that a woman of a certain age
has her lipstick, her heels,
her incorrupt heart
and has gone to war.
