NaPo 28 - Courage

You held my hand like a wounded bird
that didn't know it was hurt, feebly flapping
away in fear -

I remember the imaginary stares
that burned into my back and my mother's
words, but words
never sounded so sweet as they did when
you reassured me -

I remember waiting long after
the movie to kiss when the theater
was empty and how every movement
required such careful contemplation -

what political stand was I willing to make?

I hold your hand every day now, and that
bird never fully healed because its
fallen from different trees - know that when
it reaches out so timidly for you, hiding
from the hate letters in their typewriter
brains - when I managed to
take your hand it meant that much
and more - my body always means more
than just what it does, and some days
I am still in awe that I can do it -

I'm not parading my pride anymore, there
are no politics in my stride, and I am still
that timid bird with feather fingertips but
I've nested myself in the sanctuary of your grip
for those days when I feel like the world
will crush me beneath the weight of
picket signs and crumpled hate notes.