Two women, branded crone and slut,
our commonality our hung baskets
of surprise fruit each in different phases
of ripeness. I speak. Hushed, but fierce:
brilliant words about justice,
about coiled rainbows within tight spaces,
how they’ll unfurl band by band
how every balled up woman
will witness these colours of resistance
even as we pound, pound from within
our arks, one by one, drumming
on planks an incantation for fresh rain.
She grabs my hand, pulls it
to her taut belly.
Commands me to feel the sandstorm.
Cause grains are gonna fly, baby!