From this height, this is womanhood.
Fleshy and blistered, razor against womb –
chrysalis into smoke or a wall or a plea. A
building weighs itself, windows too heavy to
carry itself; woman too light to carry herself,
too rented to carry a person. Of a man,
you find a woman; fortified tire tracks on road
crack unto roots. Mouths drool dirt.
From bedrock, this is humanity. Frozen
and clinical, seed into pill into bloodstream;
oxygen eviscerates till skinned human
bleeds plum blossom. Clavius looks too far
from here. Balance on bedrock –
mold into bedrock, bury ourselves.
By Sarah Street
Sarah Street is a junior and Writing Fellow at the Westminster Schools in Atlanta, where she also writes for the school newspaper and edits the literary magazine. Her poetry has been featured or is forthcoming in Aerie International, DoveTales: An International Journal of the Arts, Just Poetry National Quarterly, The America Library of Poetry, and Live Poet’s Society among others. Sarah’s work has been recognized by the New York Times Student Poetry Contest, the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Writing for Peace Young Writers Contest, and River of Words Poetry Project. Sarah’s writing frequently explores themes of children’s rights and social justice; she is passionate about promoting diversity, advocating for human rights, and inspiring unity through writing, music, and community service.