by Maria Purpura
When the world wakes
wistfully sleepyheaded dreamers,
we write words, where
“waterlily ladies in waiting”
and “walking kaleidoscopes” collide.
Speak truths and woes where
women wait for what worries them:
they themselves or the monsters
that have outgrown the bed.
They choose now to hide behind screens
and Bibles
and money
(it’s always something).
Slowly singing solemn soliloquies
since standalone silence seems less fitting
on days where umbrellas
keep heads from carrying the
weight of the world.
Those days,
cars trace light which follows in front
reflections of themselves in the
puddle-soaked street.
These days,
dance with our cuffs wet,
smell the rain soaked earth
as worms come out to play
and smiles squirm onto our faces—
as if a little water couldn’t
diminish
what joy we have.
Here we are:
children of the 21st century.
Bodies whose voices will one day bring
the changes we utter into our coat sleeves
and pray for under twinkling stars
and darkness.
They tell us they were better
But we know better.
We know our lives are young,
our rotations round the sun are few,
and that we have time.
And that playing in pouring rain—
splashing puddles onto
friend’s clean white shoes
splashing puddles onto
brand new cars on street curbs
bought by people twice our superior
(and always willing to remind us)—
will not hold us back,
will not keep us from
the potential we have
to reach towards
and live for.