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I am through with committees
of old men, their dour laws
entangling, corrupt, assigning fall
to life when birthright seeks to rise.

I am through with cliques
of sisters locked in regimens of iron
man & green, so terrified of sustenance
that bondage smells like bacon.

I am through with junkyards
of the empty word, booby-trapped,
spring-loaded to react, defending injuries
that should have quit their weeping years ago.

I am through to fields abloom
impassioned by the ever-towering man
where every day’s a feast of freedom multi-hued
& words like me can dance, sweet naked in the rain.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

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