Free

The world assigns a woman work
Big unmanageable tasks
It places children on both hips
It gives her maps and directions
Until she reaches
The given destination

It place weights upon weights
Onto her back
Until it breaks

But sometimes she says no
Because

Her hands don’t always crave
The heat from the stove
And to calm the crying
From the baby’s room
With her calming soothe

Instead
They crave spines of bound books
The freedom of touching skin

She craves to lead the world
That once led her
Because
Those hands weren’t meant to be directed at all