In the Family of Opression

These bars freeze
The skin covering my bones,
Brittle,
From your cutting wind.

The cold steel,
Pliable in your hands,
Chokes my breath,
With the fear of Death.

Death,
Oppression’s mother,
Looms at my cell,
Ready to strike in the night.

The chill,
Follows the call of broken limbs,
Awakening the sprits
Of a woman’s past.

These woods are painted white,
On a canvas chalked with a blank.
Here the spotted doe
Is helpless against her restraints.