April was A POEM A DAY month and this was one I pounded out like bread dough.

Unrecorded

Once she wrote
with the sharp edges of her being.

Strands of her stories were used to make nests
and her words were footprints
that could lead you home.

Then
The Fire
The Famine
The Pestilence
The Wars
left her only with
seven names for herself and all her sisters.
Sentenced as the cause
her story was reduced
to being just a man’s rib.

She was worn as smooth and small as a pebble.
She curled like an apostrophe
in a sentence
describing
history.

The only proof she was ever an author
woven into nests and buried
in unmarked graves.