Letter to a girl crying in the other car

Sometimes we think we know a stranger's story.

by Naomi Wood
A 1 minute read

Looking at her through the glass between us

I want to tell her how vast she can be.

The multitudes, the contradictions

Swirling in the solar plexus of her solar system

 

Potent in the cobweb delicacy of her magic

Larger and too deep for the savouring

Of hearts whose mouths

Hang open like porcelain caves.

 

I hope for her to grow ungainly and impudent.

That she'll see the gilded cage

And not be distracted by its pretty engravings,

For a grave is what it is.

 

That she'll burst from its trappings with a force that propels her

Into all the dimensions I know she can travel. All the inconvenient places.

Where those who wish to subdue her voice, lurk

With pearl-curved teeth and shiny spines protruding.

 

I want to tell her that there'll be so much more...

That even if she feels oxidised under this weather

I see her brimming with kindling.

 

I see the soft flesh of anarchy.

Terraform deftly peeling back layers of skin

To expose more earth to the sky.

Photosynthesis ripening the dew on a blade of unimagined history.

 

I want to wipe the saltwater falling from her

And tell her there'll be deeper oceans and vaster plains-

Whole galaxies to pour herself into-

Some that will hold her gaze

And many that won't.

 


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