songs we sang on sundays

snapdragons

i love listening to old people. (ps im always open to constructive criticisms) 

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Snapdragons

As joints link with tendons,

Worthless balls of bone without-

I look to my grandmother and her stories begin to sprout.

I wish I had all the time to listen

And let her spill her thoughts-

Because she has spilled enough blood,

Like all other women,

Left to their devices.

But let me be clear:

These are not whispered amens,

These are weapons,

Stripped from crises and offered as sacrifices.

When age claims this youth,

I hope my joints still move and

I hope I will tell the truth-

Of the blood that was spilt.

Of this blood I paint with.

Of these flowers I've planted, knowing they would wilt.