The women of my lineage
all have hands wrapped
in ribbons cut out of us by men
we trusted. Red hands passed down
like a story, a whisper, a warning,
an heirloom tucked in the hollows
of our bones, a curse, a plague on our house
placed by men who have fortified their houses
against witches. Burnt at the stake for their crimes.
This is the justice of the world.
If not the burning,
then the water. Slowly sinking,
head claimed beneath the calm blue,
engulfed, embraced, erased.
This is the justice of the world.
Those of us who clawed our way back
to land learned to find joy, not in thoughts
of their burning, a reckoning
that would never come; but in eyes shut
against the towers and turrets of their castles rising.
In the clanging, the rejoicing, the praise. The altar
of our chests cracked open. Canaries uncaged,
carrying songs. We gave ourselves
something more than justice.
Peace.