the daughters of the street begin
their journey in vibrancy,
pretending they hadn't been
afraid of their own voices.
the soles of their worn-out shoes
beat in rhythm on the soil
that breathes tulips and coughs dandelions.
some of them will be wishes,
objects of desire in the eyes of men
who look like they have lived
their whole lives in subway seats,
ready to strike.
and i thought i would stay in this place
of directions and dreams,
thinking i could pick one off the sidewalk
like a dropped penny.
they never keep the buildings up
long enough to rust,
rain doesn't stop anyone.
suddenly there are two of them
facing each other's weaknesses
and neither will give in.
she's up to her neck in
unrealistic expectations,
he is up to his in all his confidence.
the only difference
is doubt, splashing up to her nose,
trying to get into her head.
and when she looks in the mirror
all she sees is who her mother was
and who she wants her daughter to be.
my hands are tired from all the squeezing
i do when i'm alone,
trying to get every last drop of
anything they'll give me
when i know i deserve better things.
maybe i'll just walk to work
and see the flowers on the other side of the road.
i wish they'd toss me over there like a stone
or there was some crosswalk and a crowd
i could hide myself in
and pretend i am one of them.
there is only concrete here.
how can we grow anything in it?
yes, we have the water and sun,
but nowhere for our roots to stand.
it's getting crowded on this side of the street
they speak of throwing some into the river of cars
so we have more room for our feet.
oh, won't you let some of us cross
so we can cultivate
the flowers on the other side of the road
they're drooping under your shadow.
about being a woman in life and in the workforce and never feeling like you're good enough.
