how do you get up
relight your torch
brush off the thick clay dust
tattered and torn
your heart shattered and worn
menstruating from every pore
as a sign of your fertility
your ripeness for a new dawn.
yet you have been shoved to your knees,
your face rubbed in the concrete of your own foundation.
like the black woman you are
you hitch up your bosom
yet like the native American you are
your skirt fans the smoke
signals of freedom
your Alamo outcries and
little big horn loyalties
like the immigrant woman you are
you grit your teeth
wipe your hands on the apron of your
sacred burial ground.
down rooted and tumbled
you prepare the last meal.
for your twin tower children of spent cries.
deep southern fried chicken
snuggled up beside German potato salad
neighboring with little shrimplets
riding upon a cushion of house fried rice
saluted by a slab of Mexican cornbread
you have so much to say.
but no words invented an express
your own new ground zero sorrow.