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The Song I Will Not Pass Down
I dreamed a song —
hush tones and haunted chords.
A woman loved once,
and it grew into a tree.
She watered it with years,
fed it her voice,
slept beneath it,
called the silence love.
And in the final verse,
she hung herself in its arms.
I woke with the melody lodged
between my ribs like a blade.
I turned to you,
my daughters,
my mirrors,
my storms unsoftened by shame.
I almost sang it to you,
almost let it pass
from my mouth into your bones,
like the women before me did —
lullabies lined with
martyrdom in a dress.
But I stopped.
Because I saw your eyes —
not frightened,
but awake.
And you, fierce ones,
you deserve a different song.
Copyright ©
Gabrielle Munslow
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