Brandished Truth

I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth,

rather a hammer on my tongue,

the iron and wood of it mimicking my bones.

Only use it for good, they said.

But what is good

when God wears gold from your guilt,

Men fashioning 'the book' to his own design,

keeping innocents in the dark,

stealing their 'sins' to line crowned pockets,

burning women who learned to read,

or dared to speak,

all in His name.

Maybe good is in the silence,

that in-between before you speak anything.

I let it grow heavy in my mouth,

practiced running it against my tongue,

clinging like a windchime,

the taste of bitter metal shivering into my shoulders.

My swallows added to the sledge of it

until my lips plumped from the weight,

and my cheeks declared the whole of my throat

John Henry,

tonsils always ready for me to drive the steel

that stood there, politely,

waiting.

And they waited for 37 long suffering years

until I discovered the driving force of "no"

iron nail into wood coffin

was a symphony of splinters,

glorious music!

I let my mouth move mountains

and plant hedgerows in my name

around my garden

where only love has the key.

Finally, the metal of me SCREAMED,

truth scrawled across billboard,

brandished with heart-strung voice,

a Newsie pirouetting to "Extra"

across center stage,

as if I am paid by the penny and rent is due,

and I know they are just waiting

with their popcorn feast.

I honed it, owning the bold and beautiful parts of me

that were never allowed any space,

invited them into the present,

smithed my hammer into a sword,

let it cut down every "perfect" blade of grass

that leaves no room for bees

or wild things.

And I feel 50 pounds lighter

for the speaking.