poetry is personal

poetry is personal.

poetry is political.

it is erotic and wild,

it is unspoken desires and

secret memories.

it is sweet honey bubbles

on soft lips.

it is the soft grind and slap

of skin on skin,

the body’s natural machine

at work.

it is the golden dawn of a new day

after night.

it is surviving the night

with only a few stars.

it is reclaiming power,

even in its vulnerability.

it is my voice.

it is my choice.

I say yes, I say no,

I plead—just let me go.

I find hope in the tears

that come to the eyes of the women

who listen, who bleed silently with me,

their eyes saying

me too.

we are in this together.

poetry is our quilt,

we huddle in tight and

pull in the new members,

wipe their tears and pat their heads,

say, “it will be okay eventually, but not now.”

poetry is our sheets

our soft revolution,

our bodily reclamation,

our self-given restitution.

poetry is personal.

poetry is political.