Like a waitress who has lost her balance
I buckle at the knees from the weight
Of carrying too many plates.
There is a history in these shoulders.
Not one I’ve heard, but instinctively know
Like an old song in the throat
From my forgotten foremothers.
I am speaking with them now.
One says “Resist”
Another “Persevere!”
And another says “Learn to fight with your fists, you might need it this year!”
“And above all” they say in unison “above all, remain dear”
And I cannot let them down.
So I pick up the plates, and I balance them again;
There is such a history in these shoulders!
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