The White Spaces Dance
The black lines of words
tell me of
my Father,
my Brother,
my Comforter.
But where is my Mother? She should be there too,
in bold, CAPITALISED font.
She should be there.
I stare at the text
written by man.
What did they do with Her?
Adjusting my eye
the white spaces dance,
rearranging themselves,
until I can see Her face.
by Angie Griffen
