Transferred

bless those echoes,

she typed;

prayerfully,

supportively,

with all the sincerity

of an action

following a disclosure.

it wouldn’t have mattered

what was said,

because transfers mark the space

before and the space after,

nothing about

our special what

invokes them;

only our sharing,

and the splitting of time.

this is a time of transference

with each

closing feeling freeing,

emotions still unset.

Our confusion rests in

what we won’t distinguish.

two rapists.

two fathers.

two storytellers,

and not often true ones.

who’s to size

lies accurately

in moments

where

we’re

all

desperate

and

scarred?

who’s to be a knight for others

when their safety

was never

threatened?

safety is threatened,

let’s be clear.

safe thoughts.

safe walks home.

safe families.

safe bodies.

safe futures.

unsafety transfers in a way

that safety can’t.

unsafety is what was here,

not what was carried,

echoing

in

talks

of

saviors

by white saviors;

who look awfully like someone

we’ve barely survived.

someone who fancies

themselves safer.

someone believed to be

safe for now.

someone sized

for

this moment,

if not the next one.

we prevail, you say.

blue waves, you say.

waves like endings

come in on someone’s tide,

and tonight

I wonder

whose tide this is,

as I picture safety

for us.

bless those echoes,

she said with the sincerity and tenderness

of an unanswered body,

speaking before

a tide carries us back to the shore.

--

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Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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Amanda Lindamood

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.