In a box where bells ring,
but are seldom heard
I lie on a library shelf
waiting for bold eyes
to search the unseen.
They say (the nameless)
I suffer symptoms of melancholy,
an archaic, ingenuous way
of deflecting their pox
of ignorance scarred curiosity.
In The Great Burning of Books
I survived the matches, the ashes,
the rabid theologies of supremacy
that believed masculine porcelain
should be the only place setting
at the table.
I am thought to be a mere bauble
among the reams of patriarchy,
an artifact of the defeated no one
would ever seek, let alone read.
They haven’t considered starving freedom
won’t stop hunger, nor will boots
on throats eradicate questions.
The wind of whispers is growing louder.
My hidden pages feel the shiver of resurrection.
Scents of perfume, sage of cleansing, garroted
feminine finds the keys to emancipation.
©Susie Clevenger 2024
