thirteen ways of stepping towards your fury
a poem
one: fill your sleeping sheets with garden dirt; scatter pebbles
to remind yourself that rootedness doesn't mean comfort.
two: let injustice run its tongue down your jawline. hold the grimace
you swap for smiling when surviving. scheme.
three: conjure four men whose fortunes are only outpaced by their cruelty.
four: consider the way dried blood would still a flag in the wind.
five: do not let yourself go hungry.
six: gather the young you who lives in the crosshairs of your shame.
carry her to shelter and promise you'll be back when the war is over.
seven: block out all the shouting. let a different song bury itself
in your palms: weeping. begging. the near-silent whine of a child's terror in the dark.
eight: wear the right boots.
nine: seek and learn what was kept from you. what truths your mother's tongue twisted. what stories were buried with the bodies you were never supposed to name.
ten: learn the names.
eleven: the bridge will burn once you cross. there will not be an easy way back.
twelve: save a pocket for whatever roots you to righteousness. it will be your only way back.
thirteen: open. your. eyes.
About the Creator
Dane BH
By day, I'm a cog in the nonprofit machine, and poet. By night, I'm a creature of the internet. My soul is a grumpy cat who'd rather be sleeping.
Top Story count: 21
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova2 days ago in Poets
Should We Not Try to Get Too Political?
Here's something you often hear people say, "I try not to get too political." I understand the sentiment and I sympathize with it... while at the same exact time, I completely disagree with the notion. Whether it's referring to social media or wherever, it's kind of unavoidable. You can attempt to sidestep it, not engage, leave the less important things for actual politicians to discuss... you can want it to not take over your life, your conversations, your relationships, and that makes perfect sense.
By Stephen Kramer Avitabile5 days ago in Writers
Comments (3)
Stunning. Powerful. A poem i want to keep in my pocket for when I'm tempted to close my eyes.
An empowering poem!
much needed 🙏🏻❤️