The thorn in my thumb hurts
Like the drag on a cigarette, nicotine
prickling, the protest of clean lungs, like
a needle in a vein
hurts
Who is she, this mother of ghosts?
Collector of their stories, teller of their tales?
I thought she was gone so long ago, but she
was only waiting to be needed again.
She is needed.
She is here.
She is vulnerable and in that vulnerability, powerful.
She is silent, but she speaks.
She speaks.
She’s speaking now.
Modesty Is For Suckers 