S-T-R-E-T-C-H

17 Apr

I lie

on the

table and my

arm is stretched

(not by me) past the

point where pain begins,

into the white light zone,

exceeding my threshold

to improve my range

of motion –

 

Not unlike

this morning’s

conversation about

whose story is whose

and what power there is

in the telling or not telling

and what it means if I share

words that aren’t mine, even

if I’m given permission –

 

Where culture constricts,

where race and class collide –

 

And my reach, as my arm

becomes fully my own

again, and where

I’ll land when

I stand all

remain

to be

seen.

National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days

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