femme

Crouched, fearsome, lioness!
Stitching together your mother’s clothes,
spear-heading into the unknown
with nimble fingers and a triumphant smile.
You say: we have won, daughters,
collecting trauma like trophies,
like charms dangling round your wrist.
You beat your chest, soft as pillows,
roaring at the moon:
For your sunshine, my daughter,
I rise again.

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