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Women(girls) Are Not Stones

By K. Asare-Bediako

i am coming forth to where it seem a new beginning to

the forging wind cascading my mother's elbow a

span of moon reverberating the anatomy of grief

building a staircase beneath my sister's shore

i am going south to hunt for sticky men & a holocaust of

unrestrained pity knocks the inside of my eyes

it's heaviness pouring me tranquility

what is it with forgiveness whenever one is at mean

let it not be so, my softhearted body—my soul

i have gather the lynching 3 years on the

table where i yearned for freedom

where my inflictions were too harder, a stone,

to sustain a skin from bleaching red in the inside

let it not be a servitude where vengeance is

overlooked in the eyes of saunas

i know silence does not have a cutoff score

for girls i know a woman is the second of man in


which is to say only a brothel achieves the goal

from marriage setbacks — beating

i last recounts the scar from the sting of marital death

& the results of the beating examination conducted on

the eve of every thursday on my mother's skin...

my sister's clamour precedes the one

that grapple my throat

& i am seen knitting denouement in stinky houses

i am captured swallowing their distress like lush

i am okay if you name gallop a first death i mean show

me a river which does not bleed to lost

every woman is a river why wade in when you

can pass by

if the police have ears they should start listening to

to the blood from the gagged if those caucus have eyes

they should unfold them they should cling its

socket to homes

they don't know that a tree is a woman that makes

a country with her branches

they don't know the girl is not a fort-less town

i have to remind them that girls, too, have feelings

they always trample, forgetting the girls are not stones

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