Poetry

Sinew

The tin plate is tacked over my mouth before I can even get the words out.

This body is mine, I breathed into it,

I gave it nutrition, trained it, nurtured it

until it grew enough to have my mind accept it.

Now I’m being told it’s only fit to be measured by eyes and instruments

that clinically access its worth.

To me it is lifeblood,

to them it is meat.

Poetry

Roses are green

There’s a rose in the garden

without any buds.

No matter how much the gardeners try,

the rose turns away

and focuses on growing strong,

healthy green leaves

admired for being just that.

The rose has always known

flowering was not in its future.

And it’s fine that way.