I am like a Russian Doll,
not the big one on the outside
with the glossy red and gold painted
designs hands love to rub—but one of the smaller ones
nested inside, hidden away, sheltered by those
more able to handle the handling:
I am more compact, take up
less room, able
to hold my breath
a virtue, perhaps, in other lands.
This poem appears in my latest book of poems called Roses in Winter and has nothing to do with the current political situation, only the interior battle we all wage to be heard and seen in life-giving ways, although perhaps this kernel is not unrelated to larger conflicts that cost real lives, although I am loathe to comment.