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.