To That Woman, May She Run

To the young woman with one foot buried ankle-deep in sand:
who sunk her hands into the earth
and unrooted the feet of strangers
while she drowned her own.

Who was told, “you can't run with just one foot,”
and answered, “I'm not a runner,”
because she'd seen what seemed like stampedes of feet
that sprinted past her in pairs while she played footsie with herself.

Who patted the backs of familiars and randoms
but dug in her heels when the occasional arm shot out
and tugged at her fingers, waist, breasts,
as if she could be yanked out on the whim of a vaguely curious passerby.

As if she could allow herself to be swept up in a race she forfeited
when calloused hands, so much larger than her own, clawed her shoulders
and stung the backs of her knees,
as if she wouldn't stumble face-first into jagged rocks.

Who hid the gashes under a veil laced together from disinterest and distance.
Who pretended that she kept her foot buried because she wanted to stand still.
Who never admitted that she'd first driven in her toes because she couldn't afford another fall
and hadn't been able to dig herself out since.

Who panicked when two feet stopped beside her.
Who closed her eyes when two knees settled into the ground.
Who trembled when two hands sifted through the gravel and the grit.
Who heaved her leg up at moments and stood rigid at others.

As if she could confess that she'd been static for so long that she could barely walk, let alone run,
because while she'd never wanted it more-- an arm tugging at her fingers, waist, breasts--
she'd played footsie as if it was solitaire;
as if no pairs of feet and knees and hands would ever touch her own.

To the young woman with foot once buried ankle-deep in sand:
Who found the courage to sink her hands into the earth,
beside those pair of hands,
and help unroot herself.

Who reveled in her freedom and held out her hand.
Who shook with nerves and anticipation,
as if her liberator wouldn't grow weary of waiting
and rejoin the herd of feet dashing past.

As if she wasn't too late.

I say to that young woman,
who answered, “I'm not a runner:”

You have the endurance of an Olympian.
You have traveled farther in one step than all of those feet combined.
You have transformed from a victim to a heroine to a champion to an inspiration.
And you-- you may not be a runner.

But you are the stuff of legends.
You are the stuff of legends.
You are the stuff of legends.
You are the stuff of legends and do you hear me, young woman, standing on your own two feet, when I tell you:

You may not be a runner
But your voice, your story, your experiences,
From my lips to their ears will have one hell of a run.




Poetry by MsImaginary The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 93 times
Written on 2018-04-04 at 17:16

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Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Brava, this had tremendous pace, a wonderful ride

Elle x
2018-04-06