Dust

The following is a poem I wrote a couple of days ago. I wrote it as a critique of the often confining roles that religious society expects their women to fulfill.



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Dust

by Laura Page

We hold on, plaintively, we daughters of the King,
To a vision of dust on the feet of Jesus,

And dust in the hair of a homely girl who mixed

The fine silt in her own, course locks with tears and an extravagance of myrrh and aloes,

Then wiped the calloused feet of one who would be led like a lamb to the slaughter.
And then, when we let go, we daughters of the King,

The rest shake the same, holy dust off their feet
In disgust at an extravagance of desire in daughters,
A reckless excess of hope for the day when daughters can love
A man, love a woman, love a place, love a vocation
More than visions of dust on the feet of a poor young man who
Would die, among other things, for equality.