Poem: Grace

She was born with two left feet,

Big hands, nails sharp edged like a mountain skyline,

And thick tufts of dark hair sprouting unevenly

Like an unkempt garden from her head.


Those feet couldn’t dance to save a life.

Those hands weighted her hairy arms down like barbells,

And that hair grew into braids and buns

And knotted tangles.


She ripped at them with a brush,

Mercilessly; smearing makeup

Over her freckles, filing vigorously

Until her nails were round, smooth, and pink like stones on the beach.


Her head held low, her body shrunk small;

Anything to avert the piercing eyes

When she tripped over her feet in the halls,

Or when a laugh or devilish comment would send attention her way.


But she awoke:

Tired of the pain of plucking,

The tiresome act of covering her self perceived blemishes,

Of forgetting the beauty she offered to the world.


She walked, ran, and danced through falls and failure.

Her enormous hands smacked down her enemies in one swipe.

She cut her hair short, blunt;

She lived her life through her own freedom.


She lived, a woman

Who still swayed back and forth

On her two left feet

Remembering all her dances.


She lived, a woman

Whose hands struck the ivory keys with speed and grace,

Reaching more than an octave,

Forever playing her songs of Freedom.


She lived, a woman

Whose hair eventually turned grey and thinned

But still got gently brushed

And even sometimes braided.


She lived, a woman

Who was proud to be the woman that she was.


She lived a woman

Who loved herself, and all those around.





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