There are rules, you know, for who we can be
to which even legislators must bow;
unwitting, consenting ourselves un-free;
laws writ in a church lady’s frowning brow.
This is black, they say, and this one is white.
This is for women and that is for men.
The shades of gray in between wrong and right
are rubbed and erased or darkened by pen.
I see her stretching these unwritten laws
like a bird reaching her wings out to soar;
a cat extending her concealed sharp claws;
an athlete pushing her legs out for more.
She stretches the rules for who she can be;
stretched to the point that she seems to be free.
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