“There, it’s finished,” we’d say, and, exhausted, and we’d lay our hammers down.
Before that, wary, banded together, we sisters of pain and silence -
though feet swollen, sore - we stamped with rage this ragged ground.
Though it will never be finished, and there will never be a day in which we’ve won,
Eyes open, afraid, banded together - Us past and future - our rhythmic insistence tireless,
Flagging never, no conscious unstruck ‘til exhausted [we] can lay the hammer down.
Now reach for your sister, choked and still and quietly undone
hold her in your mama’s arms, and her hands in yours, bring that hammer down with violence
look into her eyes and cry “Feet, swollen and sore: Stamp with Rage this ragged ground!”
Banded together! US! We reach through time, harvest our mothers’ sins begun
before our generous laps had loving hands to help her learn to open her silence
Never finished, we wield so she might dream - looking up, of laying her hammer down.
It will never be finished, and there will never be a day in which we’ve won
I find my grandmother’s voice, years silent, pluck its strength and break its compliance
though my own tender new feet are swollen, sore, I stamp with rage this ragged ground
She comes to me, and all the She’s before her, knowing we’ve only just begun
to unpick this knot never meant to be laid straight, following the thread of denial and - “There, it’s finished,” we must never decide (and carelessly toss the hammer down.)
Mouths swollen sore – agape with heavy years, Continue to call and rage ‘cross this ragged ground.