Lockdown

Here the chain is louder than any words.
And the name — "Lockdown" — is just a smile through clenched teeth.

Look:
the left side is the pot — home, kitchen, stirring, boiling,
the "what will we eat today" and "I’ll clean up later."
The right — the heel, the feminine, going out,
the street, the news, the public eye, the world.

And between them — iron.
Heavy, cold, inevitable.

The chain isn’t locked from outside.
I see no padlock.
It’s just coiled.
Even scarier:
no one put it there by force.
It’s there "by default".
Tradition.

Kinder. Küche. Kirche.
Or as our grandmothers said without words:
"The woman knows her place."

Here, however, there is one small, thin, important thing:
the heel stands.
Upright.
Not broken.
Not fallen.
Not bent.

If this woman wants —
she can take one step forward,
and the chain will rattle, stretch,
and if she is strong enough — it will break.

This is a picture of a prison,
that looks cozy.
Warm.
Normal.
Accepted.

But in fact, it is sadness humming in metal.

And the power that has not yet been spoken,
but is already ready.

There is no scream here.
There is preparation.

This is not a lockdown.

This is a held-back departure.

Lia