Living in Virginia’s Pockets, poem by A. S. King

Labeled unfit, you followed
direction. Too fragile is what he
said. They implied. Too weak
for what your own body offered.

I can not imagine the quiet
torture that drove your pretty
body to walking among the waves.
Rock weight in your frock pockets.

Now we twist necks with forethought.
Our pretty bodies too important
for such horrors. Our neuroses,
stress of greedy competition, bear

no space for the bulging of tummies.
We have freedom. Like you, directly
controlled by their whims. They think
we have plenty – more than you did.

Labeled frail now are the ones who
don’t work. The weak are the uneducated.
A suicide similar, doing what we’re
allowed. They still think they know best.