London’s Daughter is a Sufragette

by Colette Spaul

The future is bright and here and bruised purple,
and a clinical green sky darkens overhead,
soon to be pierced by white light. She is there, also.
Her words are so fast and wild when the rest is still, and
sometimes she smiles at the corner of her eyes.

In this moment, she is justice –
ugly and dirty and impure – screaming
a mute and blistering hunger. Her speech is
too-much and too-bright with survival
and softness, and love.

The force of her rhetoric settles somewhere inside. Right there
in the space between church-roof bones, it translates,
by pounding muscles and threading veins, to these things
ancient and leaning. We have no need for polysyllabic latinate words
to picture divinity, or her voice which brings the light.

A part of her goes on, and keeps you late.
Ahead, there is only possibility; behind, the pestilent
and sin-steeped fearful. They forgot that in London’s mangled
and bitter streets, fearless women are bred
and made strong.