To my Sisters, Everywhere

By Lian Brook-Tyler

I see your selfies.
Your smiles concealed by
duck faces.
Your duck face concealed by
filters.
And despite it all,
your swan.

I see your breast milk,
secretly spattered everywhere,
like a crime scene under UV light.
I see your liquid gold
and raise you
up.

I see your shame-soaked rage
and crimson-soaked knickers.
A womb so precious
it hurts
to acknowledge just how precious it is.

I see you with your scales,
magic powders and potions.
No carbs,
no calories,
no life
in your beautiful body.

I see your sex under plastic wrap.
The gels, the rabbit, the shiny pills
(Why not get a plastic sheet and have done with it?)
And I see what lies beneath the plastic.
If it ever comes up for air,
it’ll be breath-taking.

I see your It bag armour
and your bag full of darkness.
Your wrenched up, sucked in, work-in-progress womanhood.
And I see your girl still running in the sunshine,
hair flying,
without a care in the world.

Sister, I see you.
It’s not enough
but I hope it’s something,
for now.