the glass ceiling


She keeps her knives hidden
next to her voter id card
and a palm-sized pepper spray can;
she carries her keys splayed
between her fingers.

She sleeps conscious of noise
preoccupied by promise;
believing herself
she tries to put away some time
to rise above.

Because of you there are 18 million;
but nothing was shattered, nothing was
cracked that you can’t

The foundation is still standing,
thigh-deep in anger and there’s still
a load of laundry to do.

She votes in the silence.

You hear nothing, wondering
what are these tiny shards
sticking and tearing your skin like fiberglass;
shredding your hands as you
climb over her.


breadcrumb scabs issue one — january 2009



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