Lynching away the guilt, bleaching the evidence,
white hands getting whiter.
Where are you now mother earth?
Humanity rests upon your broken uterus.
Devaluing what we've feminized,
we hang you with our severed umbilical cord.
You live to serve us. Man as masters.
Dinner best be made and the table set
when he get home from work this time.
Broken wrists and purple flesh,
I can count on him to show me why it's my fault.
I am but a rib from your creation.
Only "yes" exists. No is not an answer, the fight for prosperity.
You hold her arms down while you collect what's yours,
her struggles ring in your ears as penitence.
Consent, what is it but a dream?
Living in imaginations of those believing our voices mean something,
hibernating in a galaxy where all life has value.
What of self-determination? What of my body?
Consent lives in the last Truffala tree, swaying in the wind,
it awaits the arrogant
who proclaim it, maim it, make it into thneeds.
Feeding our greed.
Silly me, self-agency can't exist in a tree.
Or in a woman. What of a dark face?
Share This Poem