a series of letters out
by Emily Peacock
a series of letters out
for the women at CIW + CCWF
& for incarcerated bodies everywhere
Jaqueline,
you say you’ve written me a blanket and i feel it now. how words
can also be used for soft things.
the concrete might dim like a butchery but look up! i've written
you so many night skies. i know it’s not the space you hoped for.
Cricket,
if no one has said it today, i'm sorry the machine ate your money.
i will not tell you the shiny box is a gift. hold onto it for kindling.
Misty Matters,
i also put too much pressure on sunsets. ask her to put on the dress.
i picture you tucked among snow boots and tea sets. in the closets
of marbled homes and estates. funny how kids call everything play.
they say the lungs grow last. the body’s hiding place. come rest,
remember that we too must be swaddled.
Sierra,
i almost had your name once. Sierra, like the chain saw mountain.
i'm emily because it looks good on a resume. what are the things
we must not be called.
i'm mountain. i'm lion. call me beautiful again.
Aoki Pink,
how many woman dreams have i bought. i'm more nervous about
how many i've sold. why have we only been paid in more silence.
Delina,
tell me more. until a room can be rubbed raw, until the steel
becomes a clue. tell me more.
Amber,
it's september. which means it’s been almost 20 years. don’t think
of what your hands have done. name them myth and their stories
are no longer yours.
in my story, there’s sugary tea in a flask. and a darkness that sweats.
my grandmother tells me i was born because i finally had a room.
i want to thank you for the reminder, Amber. to wake up the throat.
to consume the story which has wrote you.