She holds the balance steady
and bold, but society carries pink
and blue graves like heirlooms and
screams
at the weight of her womb.

Freedom and justice intertwine,
holding a forcep next to a baby,
a psychotic plea next to a crime.
Pregnancies treated like parasites.
Mothers treated like parasite carriers.

The turning point has shifted
from black and white sentencing
to grays of masked warfare,
from bruises to muffled breaths
to scarlet.
She looks reflective, but her heart
is made of brass.
It’s hard to reach her through the noise,
through the echoing of the ones
she could have saved,

but her balance was never meant
to weigh humans.

Her presence stays
as a reminder of immovable sovereignty,
a symbol of equal liberty,
but she’s not going to walk free.
She’s not going to walk anywhere
in a nation with a severed spine.

Looks like God may have orchestrated
it perfectly, for her to live
confined. For us to see
the world’s solutions for the image
we glorified. For us to know the signs
of brewing death
and mothers fighting with versions
of themselves. For us to remember
the shattered scale and the blood-
stained gavel.

For us to feel
the tempest rush of voices martyred
before they reached the wind.
For us to hear the children
crying out
for lady justice.