The Chosen Sisters

 The Chosen Sisters

The chosen sisters share their hearts,

Their words,

Their stories.

 

They’re hard stories,

Of loss

And pain,

Of old wounds,

festering,

pulled open,

To face light.

 

They hurt, the sighs of grief,

of shame

and age-old trauma,

Nearly accepted as the norm,

Ever nagging.

This could not be right.

This is not okay.

 

And we the sisters share the story,

Action is inevitable.

We must DO something with it.

 

Sometimes, we sit by water,

listening to it lapping at the shore,

Holding the story or letting it be.

We place it on the current and watch it drift away.

We witness.

 

Or we put it under bright lights

And we realize that what has been so awful,

In the dark of our nights,

Might just be funny.

No, hilarious!

It’s power is gone, escaped into the night.

 

We might just set it ablaze

And chuck it,

burning,

off a cliff

And we howl,

“You don’t own me

Anymore…”

 

Or we lay it at our feet,

Poke it with a stick

Until the stagnant air inside seeps away

And it crumbles to dust.

 

Then, we walk away.

The echo of the thing binding us tighter.

We hold each other up or we skip.

Or decide to write a poem about it, a sitcom, a screenplay.

 

And we are better for the letting loose and the witnessing.