by Terry Godbey
Daughters of China, dip your tongues
in cups of oolong tea
like quills into the ink of centuries.
All those hearts unburdened,
silken sorrows, poems
burned by the hundreds.
For every baby girl abandoned
at Qinglong Temple, let tears feed
a silver moonlight stream
from Xian to Nanjing to Shenyang.
Take what is yours — the crumbling earth,
jade mist of morning, providence.
Free the dragon curled inside you.
With feet unbound, step over
each stone rolled onto your path
through the peonies. Push past
any man who tries to stop you.