Emily's Crossing

Did she know,
as hoofbeats split the Derby’s thunderous haze,
her breath catching like a thread in a broken loom,
that history does not halt for the fallen,
only the brave?

Once, she was a girl with wildflower dreams,
the kind that wither in the shadow of a father’s decree:
“Know your place.”
Her mother’s silence, a stone worn smooth,
pressed into her small hands.
But even then, the question swelled in her throat—
Why not me?

Later, on streets painted with fury and flame,
the question grew claws:
Why not us?
“Votes for women!” they shouted,
their voices crashing like waves
against the cliffs of indifference.
The law turned its gaze to the King’s table,
while hunger strikes gnawed the marrow
from bodies they could not break.

And now, beneath the sweltering sun,
the track uncoils like a viper.
The King’s horse, dark as privilege,
thunders toward her.
She steps forward,
a flash of resolve,
and in that moment becomes a question herself:
What is the cost of freedom,
if it is never asked aloud?

One hundred years gone—
are we still racing?
Or have we grown content to walk
in circles paved by those who feared our strides?
A century later, sisters,
do you feel the reins still pulling?

You, scrolling past headlines,
accepting crumbs in lieu of justice—
Do you see her?
Her death is a flicker on the edge of your gaze,
a martyrdom turned to ash by apathy.
She knelt at history’s altar,
but you sip from its chalice
and call it progress.

What would Emily say,
seeing you barter your birthright for comfort,
your silence gilded with convenience?
Would her sacrifice be the whisper of hooves
on a track long emptied of purpose,
or the crack of a starting gun?

Will you rise?
Her crossing calls to you still,
a jagged echo in the marrow of your bones.
It asks, not softly but with ferocity:
What will you leave behind,
if not the fire that burned in her step,
if not the courage
to step into history’s path and make it halt?