Anne Leigh Parrish Writer

originally published in Feminine Collective

See how she scuttles across the floor

The cold tile numbs, then burns

Her palms, knees, shins

All portions of flesh pressed on

The harder thing—the hardest thing

Not cursed yet—


Then there’s this back

The thing that holds her together

The thing she’s built around

Grew up around

Now crushed under the weight of

Their bad will

Question is: will she get to her feet again?

In agony? In overcoming song?

Maybe it doesn’t matter

As long as she looks up