The Sad Stage

I've always longed for freedom
not the kind that cuts me away
from the world
but the kind where
I speak
and no one measures my worth
against gender

I long for freedom
not because I live in a cage
but because the ropes
follow me
even on the open stage

I long for freedom
because it feels eternal
to want
without praying
for permission

because I don’t understand—
why being a woman
means my voice is weighed
my steps are watched
my laughter questioned

why must I be restrained
while they roam unbroken

why is duty chained to me
while desire
is theirs to claim

why do we compromise
while they never even learn the word

why must I ask the questions
while they
write every answer
moulded and crafted only
for themselves.

Lonely

Oh my crooked spine, I try to stay upright,
but the years are wearing me down.
I'm so sad,
the streets are lonely and dark.
Nobody stops,
they rush past me
Oh, so fast.
As I cry, my leaves fall.
One by one,
Each, a memory of all those past years.
Of those days,
I'd have little feet climb me,
squealing in delight.
They’d hold on to my branches.
Hugs would cover all of me.
Sometimes, one would hide away in me
If lucky, with their book.
I'd bend myself to be even more comfortable,
I didn't ever want them to need a hammock.
What beautiful memories…
Though, I can't remember exactly how long ago it was.
I've lost count of all my rings.
There,
another leaf.
The wind picks it up.
He has his own complaints.
He shakes me a bit as he takes a deep breath
and says...
there's just so much
pressure.

—Bertha Azurduy

The Wood

The Wood
Sonnet 1

My stomach churns as the dark wood trembles.
My companion whispers to my right.
Don’t be seen or heard, I dare remember.
You need but silence to survive this night.

Those shadows could be men, poised for attack.
Or they could be branches and ferns and leaves.
Perhaps wild beasts sizing up their next snack
Lord only knows what awaits in these trees.

On my inner seam presses my hunter’s blade,
Sharpened to kill and just within my reach.
Only I know what in these trees awaits
A hard-earned lesson I was sent to teach.

A secret concealed if just to survive:
Only one will leave this forest alive.

The Fabric

Performed by Molly Cullen at Kiazii Open Mic Protest
Friday, September 12, 2025

I’m no textiles expert but
I can’t stop thinking about the
so called fabric of our nation.

This promise that the threads of
democracy, equality, & freedom
were woven together to form the bedrock of this country.

Maybe we’d believe it,
if that very cloth weren’t derived from
cotton grown on stolen land
picked by trafficked people
woven by beaten hands.

The fabric of this nation.
Is this the same fabric that now
ships to our doors in 24 hours
stained with the blood of forced labor?
Overflows not only our own landfills
but landfills across the globe?
A reflection of our American obsession with cloth.
A reflection of our American obsession with hiding.

The fabric of our nation.
Would this be the same fabric churning out of American prisons in the form of
military fatigues and police uniforms?
sent to terrorize people in DC, Chicago, Memphis.
Cloth cut and crafted by handcuffed hands to handcuff more hands.
That fabric?

Do we want material change
enough to change the materials?

The fabric of this nation has been
stretched and stained,
folded and pinned just so,
but there are tears in the cloth

A population of descendants of
a so called melting pot of people who invaded, people who never asked to be here, people who were uprooted, and people who came here for a chance.
And somehow we are meant to believe that fabric made of stolen materials with stolen labor on stolen land could make a home.

Well, we’re here now.
And there’s no way but forward,
you and me and this god damn mess of a country.

Do we want material change enough
to change the material?
To allow the fabric to decompose,
To strip away the layers until there’s
nothing left but damp, soft earth.

Close your eyes.
You can feel it can’t you?
The soil blackening your knees, your fingertips,
the beckoning of creation.
You see them, don’t you?
The sprigs, ferns, seedlings of those who found and tended this soil far before we did.
Planted seeds praying for our arrival,
and here we are

Settle in.
Find a spot that will get plenty of sun.
Dig to your second knuckle
and plant your seed,
and, this part is important, stay close.
Keep tending.
Keep watering.
And know that when the fabric of this nation finally decomposes to its last stitch
we’ll have already bloomed.

Analog

Performed by Molly Cullen at Busboys & Poets Hyattsville
Thursday, September 4, 2025

Analog

How could I possibly capture the loss
What was taken
By the titans in minimalist high rises
With sterile white walls and white couches
And green juice

How could words possibly illustrate the monsters we’ve become
The price paid in mines in Congo
The blood shed
In the name of connection that’s never felt less connected

And for what
Computers under our fingertips
A front-facing camera
Newfound perception of the self
Novel methods of inflicting pain and violence and neglect upon each other, upon ourselves

Perhaps I could I show you
How beautiful notebook paper is covered in the curly handwriting of your best friend
The anticipation of checking the mailbox every day and finally finding your name scratched on a tiny white envelope

How could I possibly capture the loss
We used to daydream
Gaze off into the distance, into each other
We let our minds wander and wonder
Now
Even the disciplined among us live and die by our pings and checklists and data
What is data to an earthling
Am I rested, am I well, am I wise
Answers that can only lie within my being

I don’t need to see news break before my first day dream
I don’t need to be available to be in love
And neither do you
I beg of us to reclaim what’s ours
Our time
Our attention
Our freedom
Our ability to know ourselves and each other
For who we are
And not how we’ve been curated
We are more than holograms
We are real
We are divine
We are human
We are
We are

So if you need me
I’m in my own glass house struggling to sit in my own mind, calming my own nervous system

If you need me
Send a letter
I promise I can wait
Or better yet
Drop by unannounced
I’m not afraid of you
I know who you are

Divine, real, beautiful,
messy, misunderstood, analog human.

in mourning

I don’t yet have the words
Only a deep, unabiding, suffocating grief in my chest
The kind that caves me in like a home crushed to gravel
Blurs my vision like smoke
Sends chills and red hot anger through my veins
The kind of grief that is also known as fury
also known as hopelessness
also known as complicity
also known as shame

I am not free
Dishes clutter my kitchen
Evidence of food cleaned, cooked, consumed, enjoyed

I am not free
My sons’ chests rise and fall
Proof that oxygen continues to fill their arteries

I am not free
The rain pours in buckets
As four walls and a roof protect my family from the elements

I am not free
Mothers scream, grasping their lifeless children
I am not free
The earth shakes as another building turns to rubble
I am not free
Dirt-smeared, blood-smeared, ash-smeared tears water the starved earth
I am not free
I lay awake wondering how much more grief I can take
I wonder this, an ocean and many borders away
My grief, vicarious, secondary, distant
Felt within a body that is strong, sustained, protected
My grief, set aside when inconvenient, when distracting
My grief, also known as shame
also known as complicity
also known as hopelessness
also known as fury.

Oh, we are not made for this.
I cannot end this poem neatly.
Free Gaza.