When the day wrings,
its fingers squeeze every drop.
You become a sponge
brittle, dried, weightless---
forgetting you were meant to hold water.
On days like these I
remember my ancestors.
You cannot tell me
that a line of wise women
don't stand at my back.
They press in praying--
their ancestral palms to my waist
tangled in my braids.
When you are wrung dry
take yourself to the water
and feel the day's fingers loosen their grasp
on days like these.