Glass of Secrets, Filled.


It’s a known thing that

A Secret

And its sole stewardship

Is often the last firm ground


Of Self or Determination

Upon which the dispossessed,

The disenfranchised and the disempowered

Have to stand and plant a defiant flag.


I myself have earned a name

For being stubborn, evasive, combative

In the face of unhelpful help offered–

The thin garment worn by control.


I have resisted in the face of

Accusations that I am lazy,

Deceitful, or

“Unwilling to help myself”


Because I could not bear to relinquish

This last thing that was mine


The secret labor that has


Given me the only strength

Of purpose I have known

These many months,

In this exile from sovereignty.


In so many ways, literature,

Culture and Science of the West

Have deemed Secrecy the province

Of the Fairer Sex alone.


But if we kept secrets it was not

From some inborn nature to the habit.

But a need to keep something all ours.

Free from prying eyes and destructive hands.


I smile into the tilt of the glass

A bitter-sweet brew, this Secret,

This labor soon to bear fruit

Come hell or high water.



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