By Malkia Charlee NoCry

Shirley Chisholm

Air is tensed, amplifying sounds,
detonating throughout the density with hooves… She stands, then, solidly clutches her nightcoat… awaiting morning as dusk drinks dawn.

Darkness, coiling itself within every agreed space. Her hair pinned, kept, wisdom rolling in grey down her temples rebellious… metal. Strong like day.

Voice is hoarse, and sore then
swallows, moves. Afraid… she locks her lips from sound, she knows… she will return unheard like thundering silence. The morning will come, she knows… so she waits.

She rises… to the sun cracking the
night like an egg. The wind nestles a window half-ajar, wills it open… awake.
The air dances; the lanterns spill
awake.

Horned creatures in long leather
jackets. Lights flash and razor… So she dresses. A country weighed at her shoulders and her hips, she lifts. And though her voice soft and sore… She speaks

And we listen.

(c) Malkia Charlee NoCry
other poems found in “Emergence of the Lotus Flower”