She swallows
another iron pill—
by now, she could forge Excalibur,
defend England
with the iron
she’s bled since twelve.
At night, fever finds her.
God touches her brow,
cradles her blood,
and whispers,
“Good sister—
look what you’ve given.”
She could mourn it:
a flushed goldfish,
crooked pigtails,
smeared polish.
But she doesn’t.
It is hers to give.
Outside,
For Sale signs
become For Rent signs.
She remembers—
some own nothing.
Not a home,
not their days,
not their blood,
not even their thoughts.
But she?
She is all her own.
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