Freedom Hanging Out to Dry

They thought our hands were made for less. For bread, and thread,

and keeping dress. They never guessed what hands can do when there's nothing

left to lose. I learned to count by what was gone. Another loaf,

another dawn. Salt in the air. Smoke in my clothes.

Six small hearts beating while the door stayed closed. They took my

husband across the bay. Left me that night and the things they'd said.

Redcoats sleeping where children lay. Watching my hands as I pray the fear away.

I buried fear like I bury dead. Spoke with my eyes,