Work
it’s nearly ten & she’s still working
what does that even mean?
categorizing expressions of living
changes them in her body
with each new meaning
interspersing like shrapnel
then eating news that wars
damage in her guts
relativity is pain’s dialect
when resilience slips in
she exhales to an 8 count
but the inhalation always
arrives – a thick black hair
on the chin of her day
she can’t feel it growing
& it never stops & she knows
that like she knows guns
will exist as long as there’s
hearts to point them at
it’s all work
the language
the limbs
the comfort of the pen
between her fingers
the way she loops her
Ps and Qs
handwriting is sanctuary
& poetry tucks behind
her knuckles with age
the discussion of labour
sandwiched between
vein & its pulse
can she call it something else?
now it’s work to hold her
eyelids up – sleep is on deck
gazing at the stars
rocket rising
VANESSA SHIELDS, writer 