Poetry: A Woman’s Place


I am the fire, whose embers dare to rise and light the clouds above it, whose smoke wills the air to escape it’s clutches – you have never felt this heat before. Summer’s child, the fertile grasp of bees float in my wake. Winter shakes. Spread the seeds, petals’ colors quake against the trees. Sing bird sing, escape your cage, flutter your wings. Feel your skin come undone, the small hairs become ash for my earth to feed off. Melanin comes alive, breaks the surface of alabaster skin. I am the fire that dares to burn everything in its path. I am the fire that doesn’t. I am the fire that warms the weak, the fire that strong stems reach towards in times of need.

Raise your hips, burn the feed, starve and be fed by your own seeds, let your spine become your home. For the world was built on another’s back. And do not stop till every crack is etched in pain and sorrow. Water the grass with tears and blood, brick by brick do not forget the price of being bought by him. For you were only made to be better so you can be controlled. Smarter so you can be used to push out babies who will use you like a flower they pick to show their crush beauty before it leaves. You will mean nothing to them. Do not expect anything. But accept everything – the world must never know a thousand flames lie under your skin pulsing at night. The world must never know the universe between your legs, the thing that’s past the sex that holds humanity’s hand at rest.


You are the fire.


I am the fire.


We are the fire. And we will burn before we are beckoned.


By ANNABELLE CANELA / Contributing Writer

Annabelle Canela attends Florida State University as a Creative Writing major. She is a freshman and passionate about human rights, her dog, and anything you can dip in ranch.