Let us now praise women
with feet glass slippers wouldn’t fit;
not the patient, nor even the embittered
ones who kept their place,
but awkward women, tenacious with truth,
whose elbows disposed of the impossible;
who split seams, who wouldn’t wait,
take no, take sedatives;
who sang their own numbers, went uninsured,
Knew best what they were missing.
Our misfit foremothers are joining forces
underground, their dusts mingling
breast-bone with scapula, forehead
with forehead. Their steady mass
bursts locks; lends a springing foot
to our vaulting into enormous rooms.
What better recognition for those of us who feel ‘awkward’ and like ‘misfits’ than this celebration of women.