The Race

Walking
(free google image)

My knees are made of rivers.

Not my own, but I do not know it,

Private landings synchronizing

limb to limb.

My womb is spirit-

My womb is spirit.

A window onto its own

dawdling stride in rhyme

through war zones.

Rivers bending backward

but I do not know it,

Shallow, unheard, rushing- faster

I tell her to slow down; she does not hear the groundbreaking.

Her windows are made of oolong feet,

And she must,

Walk to zion.

Poetry Krissy Mosley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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8 thoughts on “The Race

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