Hard core feminist,
What do you know of
passive aggressive terrorism?
Boy child, Breast explodes out of Cupid mouth like
a hot-air balloon.
Infant body, gondola like, clings to life source.
I watch you suckle and years of denied understanding...
Joy...wonder felt for the first time at peace with my bosom.
Incensed with realization
that all humanity was nurtured at this woman's hearth....
cornucopia of life giving nectar:
Gods and mortals alike take sustenance here.
Full grown...you stand before me,
impale my psyche with vile words....
tits, boobs, hooters, knockers.
Labels spit out by the same lips
that once tenuously clung to life,
abundance given freely at woman's breast.
You attach obscenity to the very act that
brought you forth.
Pornographic implication adorns the womb into which
you cast your seed,
as if the sacred nursery from which you emerge
were the inquisitor's dungeon you cast my sisters into
as you tried to erase the knowing....
It was Woman who wiped
your fevered brow and vomit when
your youth had not yet equipped you for such tasks.
We cradled you in loving arms,
wishing only to take your suffering unto ourselves.
It was Woman who aided your first step,
gave your babble meaning and taught you to hold your head high
when cruel words from peers sent you sobbing into our arms;
for non knew better those poisoned barbs
which leak their venom deep into virgin souls,
leaving spider web fissures;
microscopic death traps of spirit
that lay seemingly dormant
until one becomes entangled in a cocoon of
doubt and misconception
a slave to every bully puppeteer who will not desist
until who you are...is rent asunder...
laid to rest in a graveyard of inconsequence.
Today, youth gone,
the Cupid mouth stern and righteous,
you call me hard-core feminist.
A tough old bird, armored in iron and steel.
Tears of frustration long dried up,
cemented into resolve...
encased in shallow graves,
hastily dug while dodging snipers
in an undeclared holy-war of "might is right."
Because i refuse to bow my head,
acquiesce and titter glibly
at obscene jokes about my womaness
or put on chains and submit
to comatose servitude...
a "damsel in distress."
When i refuse to remain silent
before your rationalizations of male "manifest destiny,"
which you brandish like a
crucifix to ward off evil,
or claim my right to respect....
for this, you declare me your nemesis,
gather up kindling, burn me at the stake...or
upon your funeral pyres of inequality,
so that I may not shine and illuminate the fallacy of
your faux pax kingdom,
which binds both our realities into separate dungeons...
and you come no longer unfettered to my breast.
Round and round she circles in
They have her trapped they tie her down
And then retreat and then defeat
The cripple--they have her where they want her.
These scheming brutes these grinning sultans
Proclaim themselves the good the all
And all else the low the weak the incomplete
And proclaim this perfect, perfect woman a cripple.
This perfect cripple they call a Woman--their Woman--
She looks inside she screams: "Spiders, spiders! I saw them eat myself!"
"See?" They say, "The woman's mad. We own no spiders.
All we own is a room but full-equipped--we gave her all we own."
"Spiders, spiders!" she shrieks, "I see them eat myself!"
"That's all she says," they say, "Except, of course, in dreams."
She limps in stride she strides a limp
She falls in bed, the ceiling dreads her stare.
The woman dreams, and in her dream, she sings:
"He leads the maidens down the hill
They call him Dionysus
They say he is the god of wine
Who cures the girls in crisis."
"See?" they say, "The woman's mad, the woman's ill
She makes no sense, she's read no books
She's even burned the Bible."
The woman leaps up, she trips and falls, she whispers:
"Watch out! Watch out! The spiders are approaching!"
"Her case is sad, the reason clear," they say,
"The devil has her in his grip--makes all we own seem worthless.
We gave her all--this room--and now we sleep on public streets
We keep her safe from cruel sights warm and safe from cruel eyes
The woman's mad," I tell you, "We own no spiders."
"There's enough to go for all--little ones.
Don't claw each others' faces.
You'll each get your daily share
Of fresh morphine biscuits.
Stand in line and await your turn
And remember that Daddy's working hard
To feed you well, to see you grow,
To teach you self-denial."
They stand in line
Their throats are dry
Their eyes are focused on the jar
Of crispy morphine biscuits.
One by one they stand and wait
To drink them down then chew some water
Thank God for treats and laws, they think,
What would the world do without them?
"Dip them in your cups of milk," she says,
"But save a biscuit for a rainy day
Don't grudge a hungry child your share
Just be sure to keep some for yourself
And if you're gentle and if you're kind enough
You''ll save the crumbs of every day
And feed them to the pigeons-
Or better yet the eagles.
Voted it product of the year--
You can rest assured my recipe's FDA approved
And got applause and got awards."
The lucky ones had started gobbling
And started packing up for school
But the last young frame was motionless
He could see the cookie jar was empty.
"Sorry, sweetie," his Mommy says,
"We're out of biscuits for today
And I won't buy the manufactured kind."
She turned away and headed for the sink
This last young face was soft with wonder
The sky was bright, the morning clear
"Then I guess I'll say goodnight," he said.
"But," she said, "you better be decisive."