Like the Battleship Potemkin, rebellion
arose in the lower decks, dark
whispering, small acts of sabotage,
a breakdown in the chain.
Then mutiny, paralysis
and the legs of war.
Like all revolutions, there was pain,
no longer running but stumbling
steps to emergency wards and scalpels.
Legless in a hundred waiting rooms,
the legs waited, abandoned by the ship.
They waited for orders, for rescue, for fate.
They plotted revenge and escape.
Like Tweedledum and Tweedledee,
the legs were not a pretty pair but easy to ignore.
Not the fashionable kind of rebels but survivors,
not stilettos but sensible shoes in a wide fitting,
not the soothing silk of stockings but skin
slashed by iron, rubbed raw by leather.
Battle scars saved
for the darkness of crumpled beds.