“Under the arch. Hands on hips, elbows squared.
The immortal gesture. Fingers spread against old satin.
The ribbon in my hair is heavy. The wind smells.
History a spiral staircase nowhere. My story tangled as my hair.
All my work sorted out the beginning of the world.
My energy is loved by Her whose Love I assume.
Like an armed future of womon covering my back.
Revolution loves me as only a womon can love a womon.
Limits everywhere are the edges of threads.
I tugged memory unearthing origin to prove man
Could not hang out roots. A mess of yarn, a box of buttons.
My life is knocked out of my hands. Womon must not hate womon.
At all costs. I can tell you. You needed my voice once.
I put my hand between fire and light for you.
Your men are dying, so what. Revolution must live.
Here are the seeds here are the secrets.
Here is the dye, and the weave, the beautiful river of truth.
Sister, you have cut my hand.”
-Mericourt-Amor, Mia Albright