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)