I have been artist, singer, dancer
I have spun stories and held gatherings rapt
I have served wonder on platters
I have lived on the edges and spoken with the fungi
I have crowed bare-breasted at the moon 
I have writhed with breathless passion
and have grieved with utter abandon 
yet now
in this life
I sit frozen
lidded
seething

tight-throated and silent
I write words on the page
I cannot embody my rage

I could use the third person
keep safe, more distance gained –
write poems about her
whilst I watch spindly fingers type
complaints of an anodyne life
feeling the flame threat
lick my legs

I dwell on the border between 
sisterhood
and betrayal
we’re taught to distrust
each ripe, quivering one of us

witch-wounded
undone
tied up
self-immolated
shut up
shut down

Yet now I hear the drum-rumble
that thunderous approach! 
I yearn to run wild
barefoot and bloody
with the head-tossing horses

I will whinny and squeal 
and the herd will adore it
as we fly through the land
whipping up winds 
that blast through my sisters
to scatter our pyres

and we
will
arise

unbroken.

22.2.21

Photo from: https://www.tripsavvy.com/wild-horses-and-ponies-of-the-southeast-1639501