Evolution
A poem about how language transforms us as we move from childhood innocence to learned cruelty to reclaimed power.
My first words were gifts—
a waxy yellow sun
colored into the corner
of wide-ruled lines,
thick with rhymes and innocence.
Rays of light emerged,
said in tip-crushing crayon:
“I love you, Mommy.”
Next, I learned that words could
break, and crack
like the crayon, paper peeled
carefully back
just to make it easier to
snap.
Snap and hurl,
When they said,
Hey, ugly, dirty, dumb
girl.
Soon, words were firecrackers
I lit and flung,
the snap and crack,
the same sound the crayon made
when I learned to break back.
And later,
Words swirled in cursive,
slithered between
college-ruled lines.
Narrow. Endless.
Empty margins.
Now my words are an anchor
I heave overboard.
They are a buried treasure.
A tether to my soul—
I bob and drift
but my words won’t stay buried.
They rise and ripple,
break the surface,
float beside me—
drifting in sun-scattered waves.
Bravo! (Or would it be brava?) You crushed it with the voiceover.
Wow, this is great, I can feel your words!