Take this hand.
This small hand.
A girl, just now learning to form the letters of her name,
beginning to dream into her future.
Take this hand.
Bigger than the sky that held her hopes.
Hardened by life.
Schooled.
Done.
Beginning to fade.
Take this child.
This child.
Do you take this child to be your wife?
To have.
And to hold down.
If you say it hard and fast,
do the shallow breaths of her fear
become
somehow
less
real?
Do you take this child to be your wife?
If you say it hard-fast-loud
does it make the undercurrent roar of hatred
just a little harder to hear?
Do you take this child to be your wife?
If you preach it,
wrap the abuse of a child in the arms of a loving God,
If you legislate it,
write a law that ends her childhood at the age of nine.
Does that make it right?
Does that make it a religious right?
Take this hand.
And with this body (fully formed) worship
this body (not yet grown).
Battered.
Held in forced ignorance.
A child bearing babies, both buried early.
Do you take this child to be your wife?
To have.
And to hold down.
Stardust Becoming 