Knee’d

Keisha, a girl, with an unusual tic.
She’d knee any man met, ’til they were sick.

Shoulders gripped hard, by those delicate hands,
help’d leverage an outcome, for a pair o’ bruised glands.

Falling, clutching, gasping lungs out of breath.
For moments those men, wished ‘pon themselves death.

It’s said each one heard, as they crashed to the floor,
a curse in the ear, a warning: “No more!”

“This for the inequity,
this for the blame,
this for repression,
this for the shame.”

Keisha, a girl, a revolutionary find,
destroyed crass dogma, with her resolute mind.

And, also her knee. B’cause to be free,
we already see … requires a knee.

© Brinkinfield 2020 All Rights Reserved
Part of the Ekphrasis Project (poem inspired by a collage)