My daughter once asked me
why I never gave up
on myself. I cannot lie.
I gave up many times:
when I didn’t meet my mom’s expectations
when math kept me from flowing into college
when my husband beat my face into a bloodied pulp
when my daughter’s life dripped from crystal bags.
I became a phoenix
rising from the ashes of someone else’s fire.
I fear snow and ice, not sacrifice like Iphigenia.
I write poems not brilliant speeches like Mrs King.
I work in Love Library and mourn the library of Alexandria.
I wash memories off of dishes, remembering the pies of Mother Christmas.
I wage compromise, not war.
When I feel insignificant
in the presence of Eleanor Roosevelt, Boudicca, Trieu The Trinh, Mother Teresa,
Artemisia, Fu Hao, Helen Keller, Ahhotep, Coretta Scott King, Lysistrata,
Joan of Arc, Queen Mauve, Iphigenia Queen Tamara, Cleopatra, or all the Sisterhood of the Rose,
I realize if I deny my connection to them
they will have lived for nothing
but themselves.
pdxdragonfly 