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I. I wear the stern face of my ancestors, the apron-clad Scandinavian matriarchs who built me from rock and bone. My husband, my good friends, my family, my colleagues all affectionately name me "intimidating." They say: "You're the strong one." "We'll send you to win the battle." "They should have known not to cross you." They name me fighter, mouthpiece, leader, and stand like tin men in legions at my back. I am obliged to march on; I cannot remember a time when my feet have rested. My banner waves in the northwest wind and I hold it, dutifully, fearing its inevitable fall as my arms shake. II. My arms shake. Wind camouflages this constant trembling: the fabric of my flag whips and ripples and any falter in its course is blamed on the wind, but veins shrink - skin shrivels - muscles shake - I am no Atlas, my breath slows sharpens stops - III. I am a dry sand-castle: one touch will obliterate me. I am the brittle leaf on concrete: one shoe will shred me. I am dandelion spores on a plain: one gust will erase me. IV. In my chest beats the soft heart of my ancestors, the ruddy-cheeked Scandinavian matriarchs who built me from soft earth and azaleas. So name me weakling, broken-down, dependent; give voice to all of me. Lift this banner, and give rest to my weary shoulders. Hold me in your arms when I need to collapse. V. At times, even a general must be carried by her soldiers.
0
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
though she be fierce, she is but fragile
I. I wear the stern face of my ancestors, the apron-clad Scandinavian matriarchs who built me from rock and bone. My husband, my good friends, my family, my colleagues all affectionately name me "intimidating." They say: "You're the strong one." "We'll send you to win the battle." "They should have known not to cross you." They name me fighter, mouthpiece, leader, and stand like tin men in legions at my back. I am obliged to march on; I cannot remember a time when my feet have rested. My banner waves in the northwest wind and I hold it, dutifully, fearing its inevitable fall as my arms shake. II. My arms shake. Wind camouflages this constant trembling: the fabric of my flag whips and ripples and any falter in its course is blamed on the wind, but veins shrink - skin shrivels - muscles shake - I am no Atlas, my breath slows sharpens stops - III. I am a dry sand-castle: one touch will obliterate me. I am the brittle leaf on concrete: one shoe will shred me. I am dandelion spores on a plain: one gust will erase me. IV. In my chest beats the soft heart of my ancestors, the ruddy-cheeked Scandinavian matriarchs who built me from soft earth and azaleas. So name me weakling, broken-down, dependent; give voice to all of me. Lift this banner, and give rest to my weary shoulders. Hold me in your arms when I need to collapse. V. At times, even a general must be carried by her soldiers.
Title is a play on a line from A Midsummer Night's Dream-- "Though she be but little, she is fierce"
enpointephoenix
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enpointephoenix
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
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