Keep your balance and your wits

grasped tight.

Knot them between your fingers

like purse straps

when the street empties to darkness

and even the lamplight

does little to chase away shadows.

There’s no rescuing dignity

if you spill,

heels caught in the rickets

of this ladder we’ve built

from the bones of those who wept

behind closed doors.

Emotion would prove them woman

and that was weakness,

still is

in the eyes of some.

So the weak gift their spines and prayers,

hollow themselves into armour

for the next generation,

and the one after that,

in a desperation that they will be the drop

that tips the scales to even.