by Maeve Roughton

To you,
Young cityscape queen,
Wrapped in your sepia skin
Painted over by denim jeans,
At the corner of Spring
And your waning teenage dreams.

To you,
Little hematite Manhattanite,
Fearing for your lives,
I see your beauty rusting
Running along broken posture,
Right before my eyes.

To you,
Lush fruit of this rotten apple,
Being verbally manhandled
By a man you can’t handle,
You are not an animal,
Statistic nor scandal,
You are the seed you planted,
The light in your own candle.

To you,
Every girl’s homegirl,
Scattered across urban sprawl
Fighting for hers in his world,
You are capable, complete,
Head high with planted feet,
Rebel heart without a leash,
Your own source of all you’ll ever need.


Keith Friedlander