“Kiss My Hand”
Kiss my hand
like you would kiss the hand
of the Pope.
Not because I need worship,
but because you need
to remember who you’re speaking to.
I carry blood
older than your temples.
I walk with silence
louder than your sermons.
You bend for a robe.
You kneel for a ring.
But you flinch
before a woman
who remembers.
So kiss my hand.
Not out of love —
but out of confession.
Kiss it
for the tongues you erased.
Kiss it
for the soil you renamed.
Kiss it
for the mothers you silenced
and the flags you shoved
down their throats.
Kiss my hand
like you kissed theirs —
but know this time,
you’re kissing someone
who never
bowed.