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P.I. Alltraine Poem
I still look for her.
In the middle of the typing and the traffic
and the deadlines and the bills,
I look for her–the girl, who believed
her bare feet could outrun the moon.
She ran like a boy. She wasn’t trying to.
Her strides were not intended for similes.
No, she ran the way she always did
When she wanted the wind to dance
With the ungraceful tangles of her hair.
Her gestures, careless,
Were not meant to fit in boxes.
She knew she was a girl; she had been told.
But she didn’t have to know that one word
Was the gravity that would keep her in line,
Inching from one label to another.
I still look for her.
In the dusk and the shadows
And the starless sky, I look for her–
The girl, who believed in magic and
Ghosts and faeries and monsters.
She didn’t have to know the shackles
That came with age, the chains
That would bind her to the reality
Where monsters don’t hide under the bed,
Sometimes the monster,
It’s in the daylight
With a sharp tongue and a sweet smile.
I still look for her.
In the sunlight and the mirror
And the eyes of strangers,
I look for her–the girl, who didn’t think poetry
Lived in the ink or the page or the vocal cords.
She held poetry in the tips of her fingers,
And she felt it each time she touched
The surface of water and made ripples,
Or when she traced the contours
Of her mother’s face.
She made poetry
Like it was meant to be–felt.
I catch a glimpse of her sometimes.
In the Goosebumps, in the butterflies,
In the sweaty palms, in the flutter of the heart,
In a daydream, in a shooting star.
But she’s fading, fading because
Now she knows the moon isn’t following her
And poetry made by hands, felt but unspoken,
Unwritten, can be forgotten.
Copyright © P.I. Alltraine | Year Posted 2015
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P.I. Alltraine Poem
Your shoulders are broad and strong,
Like you’ve been carrying boxes of experience,
Like you should have known better.
You block my way and–A signal
for me to move–you shrug
Shoulders lifting half an inch
To that pinpoint of a moment
When your voice echoes in my mind,
So familiar like so many others,
“Step aside, woman, this is how the world works.”
The safety of obedience is enticing.
I could move for you, I thought.
I could choose to do that.
So easy. One step to the right. So easy.
But she–has already moved for you.
A woman–has had to move her body
To make space for you in the warmth of her womb,
Your mother, built space
Within her, stretching, contracting, expanding,
Exhausting the air from her lungs so you could
fill yours.
So much has already been moved for you.
How dare you ask for more space?
How dare you ask more of any woman?
As I stand here, unmoving,
What do you see?
I have been called a muse, an angel,
The rising sun, a delicate flower, the summer
breeze;
I am a never-ending source of metaphor.
But what do you see?
Do you see an aggressive stereotype of a
feminist?
Do you see a stubborn little girl?
Do you see an inferior creature meant only to submit?
Will you ever see a warrior–
Who deals in blood,
And bleeds an ocean–
Grotesque and beautiful?
I have no armour.
I do not need an armour.
I barely scream at the pain of broken bones
As I push another you into the world.
I am–a woman.
And as that, I will stand still.
Copyright © P.I. Alltraine | Year Posted 2015
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P.I. Alltraine Poem
The first time someone called you brave,
It was because you crossed the street without looking.
You didn’t do it out of bravery;
You just didn’t think to look.
But you liked the punch of B on your lips.
At a time when you weren’t quite sure
Who you were, you knew you could be brave.
When your friends felt sick on a rollercoaster,
You had another go because you were brave.
When they dared you to go in the abandoned house
Everyone thought was haunted,
You walked right in because you were brave.
When you lost your grandmother’s necklace,
You told the truth because you were brave.
When he banged on the door, screaming,
You let him in–because you were brave.
When his fingers dug in your skin
Grip too tight as he pinned you down,
You didn’t beg him to stop.
When his clenched fist smashed your skin,
You didn’t scream.
When he told you the bruises
He left were your fault you didn’t cry.
You kept quiet.
When they asked about the purple patches
You tried to hide with concealer and hair
You didn’t tell the truth–
Because you’d be damned
If you let anyone call you a victim.
You’re too brave for that.
Copyright © P.I. Alltraine | Year Posted 2015
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