Concrete gardens

Concrete reminds of me of the parts of me that are cold, dead, covered.

In it’s towers, in it’s flat fields.

Concrete gardens slapped on the face of our mother.

I wonder what would try to rise if it were not such an insurmountable feat.

I wonder what sleeps beneath in the churned soil, fertile, with nothing to grow.

I wonder what she feels.

I feel cold on my feet.

I wonder if I’m strong enough to lift the concrete off of me.

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