" Journey"
A young girl cut her throat
and out flew all the words.
White creatures with blue ink
written on a wing. They hovered
pale clouds on red and she
gathered them up. Pressed
bodies to little books,
created an illusion of flight.
So when she was old,
tired, when all she had spoken
was buried deep inside.
She could open her mouth
and watch little moths fly.
if I put my arms out straight
leap from this place
will I be born again?
I have marked my way
in desert like Hebrew women,
tied grief to the corners of my hair.
I have worn bangles of desire on wrists,
placed jasmine behind an ear.
My name is written in rock;
this is the way I go,
this is the love I leave.
© 2002 Treezaa (T. E. Ballard)
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