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Kitt Oct 2022
They say the ties that bind, wither towards the end
Their witty mottos downplay the love of a friend
“The blood of the covenant,” the adage remains still frozen,
“Flows much thicker than the water of the womb.”
And therefore they deduce: our loyalties reduce
And family only matters when it is chosen.

But the blood relations between man’s nations
Groan under the strain of their bond
For who would have thought that brothers were not
By long and far man’s best creation.
Wearing comfortable clothing is what I desire

And if that is a purple g-string with a pair of high rise low cut shorts
You best say "good morning"

And if that is a pair of bell bottom jeans that do not press tight
against my hips with a long sleeve pink sweater
You ought to say “good afternoon”

If I please sugar in my coffee or no
coffee but instead a warm swif of chamomile
tea you best hand me the cup and show
brotherly love to your sister

If in my womb a child grows or I decide
It does not grow
You ought to stand by me but you best
leave that choice to me
Roe vs. Wade making its way back into the court matters. It would mean a lessening of womxn’s rights in the U.S.

You may hold different opinion on this matter and on abortion. However, everyone’s life is different there is no one way life unfolds just look around you. The world and someone’s life does not follow a linear or predictable narrative. I believe with all my being that if we seek to control and choose what a woman can and cannot do with her body (something we do not do federally for men) we take away her choice, we lean away from neutrality, but in a deeper sense we in act violence upon those whose lives and thinking are unlike our own. So then the question becomes do we want to continue to treat one another this way? Do we really want peace and compassion? Even when it hits home and is uncomfortable and may push you to think beyond your own experience make room for it. Look at this world for what it is and open your heart with compassion for every human being who lives a life unlike yours.

I stand behind women having a choice to choose.. I stand behind Roe v. Wade.
Melody Mann Apr 2021
Rough around the edges she's a ravenous piece,
Capturing light and reflecting elegance at every turn,
Raw to the core her wit is unmatched by trivial mineral composition,
She's a gemstone to cherish,
A glory to salute,
A sister worth a thousand leagues beyond that of this realm,
An emerald in our wake.
Rea Jan 2021
To be a woman is to be creation itself,
at the heart of the world.
The hidden, shared laughter between mother and daughter.
The audacity and bravery to prevail,
and the low, licking flame of ambition.
Hands of friends firmly clasped and
shoulders open for tired hearts and minds.
Knowing smiles on knowing faces.
To be a woman is to be magic.
It is setting ablaze the world as people stop and stare
and wonder.
Oh, how they wonder.
Inspired by the little women (2019) movie!
She was a woman,
Inside a woman,
Inside a woman

The female definition of sisterhood
Emanating from her,
An aura of arduous existence
Of suffrage meeting resistance

She was bent over in lamentable labour
Bearing the weight of the world on her shoulders
Forgetting what men had tried to tell her
That she was an object to be sold and squandered

Through ever contentious contraction
She cried out in excruciating passion
But by the end of it all
She held in her hands
A creation of truth
That no man
Could truly understand
the universal woman
wholesome love sits here
in the many "may's"
in the hope for what can be cultivated
and in the hope of what can come about

in the staircase of thoughts
and in the apex of

              /\          \               /     /\  
            / s \          \   self  /     / s  \
          /  elf \          \  lo- /     /  elf  \
        /      -    \          \ve/     /  -acce \
      /   value  \           \/     / ptance  \
stacked up against each other in the form a trapezoid

               \            /\           /
                  \    /  ng \     /
                    \/            \ /

we share mantras her and I, sisterly maneuvering through this life

"We want to feel better" & "we want to be better",
...and so we set about finding the right equations
stacking meditations upon visioning upon affirmations upon counseling upon books of poetry, and teary-eyed artworks that carry our twisted knots that do not undo with words or the spitting out of crunched up syllables onto the ground

so we make shapes, some geometrical like the ones above
This poem centers around my childhood friend and me, who have been actively encouraging each other to continue our self-growth, by exploring together the use of meditations,   affirmations, art, etc. There is something really powerful about sisterhood and our collective impact that I wished to allude to by referencing triangles which are the strongest shapes to build with in architecture

Personal growth is a journey; I have found that on this journey I need to surround myself with people and friends who actively try to grow, too (prioritize their growth) You need community dedicated to the same goal/objective.
Maria Etre Dec 2019

“Good Morning gorgeous”
echoes down the hall
her voice altered
into a decibel
that she created
a clear tone only meant
to the one who knows

I have looked at her for 27 years
and counting, I witnessed growth
naturally aligned with her stars
never gone astray
with a mind for a compass
a heart to balance and a body to embrace
those who need

Her strength bewitched me
from mishaps to miracles
her legs never failed her
from tree climbing to moving houses
from cartwheels to driving in foggy weather
Her courage moved me
from enduring unfairness
to teaching about fairness
her rationale calmed me
and it was when she carried her baby
that I felt mother nature adopt her into motherhood
blessing her with power unknown to man
with endurance with love, with intensified
fountains of love, waterfalling everyday
every night into her baby’s heart
filling her with a glow only she knows how to grow

I saw her in a different light
with her own world between her arms
marveling at the strength that body has
to carry and nourish

She has become a mother
even though from time to time
I still steal a glance at the sister I knew
but I, now, am the proud sister of a mother.
Dedicated to my sister, Jessica
Sisterhood is not that fancy
There may be way
Each of your toes curl when you eat a good meal
How significantly brown your eyes are
Those long intricate conversations
How long and streaky the hairs on your head are
How you put your leg in front of the other impatiently
The way you hold each others hand when crossing the street
How many scoops you each like and the colour of your ice-cream cone
How you try to divide anything and everything
Or how you long for your sister when she is not there
But sisterhood is not that fancy
It's the inability to get your voice heard
The many tears
How less of your opinion counts
The silent whispered conversations when everyone thinks you are sleeping
How some mistakes are more permanent than others
Sisters by chance ,friends by choice
Alyssa Gaul Oct 2019
I hug my mother most in the kitchen.
She reaches up to wrap her arms
around me, and I lay my head
on her shoulder. We breathe
together, relax into one another.
The oak wood under our feet creaks
with each shift of weight. The kitchen is

warm like her. Though that dead plant sits
in the window, we are full of life.
My mother’s fake green grapes and strands of
ivy weave above our heads;
our own personal jungle.
The red-brown cabinets and
bright yellow lights
shine down around us as we sway,
rubbing each others’ backs with a soft hum.

We fit together: mother, daughter.
Since childhood I have not been afraid
to run to her soft speckled skin and be held
by her, even when I was tall
enough to do the holding myself.
We have the same nose,
same smile,
same droop to our right eye.
Same tendency to accidents
like knife cuts
or oven burns
or trips over nothing.
Who am I
but a part of her?

My sister pads into the kitchen
on tiptoes— a habit she could never break
since a child. I see her quiet eyes
flicker downward,
see her scoot herself away from
my mother’s arms
see her close into herself
instead. She stares at the dead plant.

If her skin were a costume, she would
tear it off and never wear it again.
Instead of my mother’s nose,
she thinks she sees
my father’s stubble.
Not my mother’s dimpled smile
reflected back, but my
father’s Adam’s apple.
When we tell her she is
beautiful, she fiddles with her men-sized shoes.
We cannot convince her to
touch us when she is afraid to touch

We fit together: mother, daughter, daughter.
We sit at the island counter, playing
MarioKart on the kitchen TV,
talking about nothing really,
but to my sister it is
Our mother laughs like bells.
Who are we
but a part of her?
Mia Mehnaz Mar 2019
Time had evaporated into the dingy air of the hospital
Day merged to night, night to day.
Sleep turned to endless bouts of prayer and whispering into your ear. Whispering that it wasn't your time yet,
That everyone was waiting for you to come back.
All that came back to my ears
were the incessant beep of machinery
Machinery that was your lifeline,
that kept your beautiful heart beating.
Coiled and crimped tubes running in and out of your body
And you looked frighteningly ethereal;
A ghostly angel in the place of my sister.
A tangle of exterior veins; pumping foreign liquids into you
And though I loathed the thought of those cold substances
Stealing away the warmth from your blood, they kept you safe.
They ushered you away
From that distant white shore,
We have come to call death.
Until one day they simply could not save you any longer.
But there was a lingering flame
Amongst the grief that was waiting to pounce
Because? You were fighting.
Like a soldier you were fighting,
With your bare hands struggling against the predator called death.
You fought with every last ounce of will in your body,
Until God called your name,
And you grew your wings, and you left.
Visitors come and go
An endless flurry of desperate hugs
Fairy-like kisses upon my cheek; soaked, saturated in tears.
Because that was the first time,
I had ever felt absolutely, completely, powerless.
I was shrinking back into a shell of myself,
Speak when spoken to I reminded myself.
And through the night I would choke back my fear,
And I sang to you. Childhood melodies.
And they seemed so far away; out of my grasp.
I clutched a strangers hand
Your hand, was delicate and soft
This hand was swollen; foreign.

But I didn’t let go. Not yet.
I ran my hand through your hair,
And I didn’t get the scent, of lavender and soap.
I retched. Inhaling something harsh.
Because as I put one finger to your head,
It came away with blood.
You layed so, so, still.
Your chest rising and falling; with breaths that weren’t yours.
And I still,
Still, read you stories and talked to you-
In that scarce hope that you would wake up,
And I could hug you for real.
Not having to heave myself over you;
Being delicate, in fear of choking you.
But I still hoped.
God, I hoped with everything in me that you would make it.
I prayed on my knees,
Screaming in a silent room that,
I would abandon my faith- if God stole you from me.
And yet, stolen from me you were.
The doctors were hopeless,
Reminding us- the damage is irreversible.
If not today, you would die tomorrow.
But I would not desert you.
I still hoped.
I hoped.
I kept hoping.
And the next day came.

The day before you died.
The white sun broke through the window,
Embraced the room and clarified.
The shadows that the limbs,
Of the simple oak tree make on the hospital wall;
Stark and bellowing.
The leaves are all gone.
The leaves and the colour are gone.
The tree is devoid of youth and joy;
And in the tree- I see you.
It hurts.
You are the mannequin of a sleeping girl.
But the heaviness of you,
As though your insides have turned to lead.
I believe it is lucid now,
A dying girl.
Trapped in a coma.
Tomorrow, you’ll be gone.

My sister’s eyes are closed.
I pull her closer,
Inhale what remnants of her pure scent is left.
I want to hold her, In this world.
Keep her close,
Let her never to leave- not yet.
Her hair brushes my cheek.
She is still sleeping-
Why is she still sleeping?
And then,
I begin to cry
I do not stop,
And I lay my sister down.

On the white sheet.
My sister,
Her eyes flutter open.
And sees shadows,
Sparrows on the wall.
Flocking to the naked limbs of the simple oak tree.
She smiles,
A small, beautiful smile.
And she points to the shadows on the wall and says

“It’s okay now, look, the leaves are returning to the tree.”
This is probably the most personal thing I have ever written. The most raw, the most real account of my sisters death. This poem doesn't speak of my grief, as my others do. But rather takes on the perspective of the girl I was when my sister was dying, A small thank you for reading, God bless you all <3
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