caminar entre los mundos

He said to me “this is metaphor right”. Metaphor, good one. I wish we talked metaphor but we dont.

He said “you wouldn’t consider keeping it would you? I would never have had unprotected sex had I thought you would”.

His reaction. After almost 3 years that was it.

Abortion is not birth control.

But no worries, I took care of it before you ever had the chance to make me change my mind.

You did not ask how I felt. If I was ok. You said only… “your wrongs outweigh mine”.

And I want to shout… and if all caps is shouting then I suppose I did. YOU ARE NOT A WOMAN. And what the hell do I mean by that? Am I talking to myself. Do I test all my boundaries because I know you’re not listening anyway. Am I becoming a demon? Or is this something beautiful. When the planets align, when they speak to me again, will it be enough?

Whoever said hollow is empty was dead wrong.

the last decade of patriarchy -Ruthann Robson

1.

our old wounds got older
and less lonely       our fantasies fled our heads
to become schemes we swirled
like a dangerous coffee of safety

2.

a damp morning in any city
what a young woman sees is an old lady       sleeping
on the street       a random newspaper page
blows across the banged blue leg
the word post-feminist justifies its own column

heading other words
career       motherhood       having it all
the arrival of equality       reverse
discrimination       the wind still blows
the old woman could not read such words
even if her eyes were not swollen shut with cold

3.

there are conversations in restaurants:
“i no longer long to be chic;
even my boots are last year’s color.”
“i’m too old to be called a chick;
it wounds my fragile psyche.”

the two women did not kiss then
but they would

they would think that kiss was enough
for a small revolution

they would learn how much more was required

4.

we don’t want lifestyles
we want our lives

in this world, every woman is homeless

take back the night

reproductive rights for all women

all those words on our banners
in calligraphy, embroidery, blood and old stockings

we were marching
again and again and again
there was publicity
but it wasn’t for us

5.

it had been ten years since i was married
but there were no anniversaries
no roses, no child support, no dinners
unless i made them

i was blue tired of the fumes of the factory
my mother died of cancer
no one to watch the kids during the day
at least at night they sometimes slept

you think prostitution isn’t a solution?
all remedies are partial
in this god-forsaken world

6.

religiously, on sunday mornings
he fetches The New York Times and espresso
i pull out the magazine first
 : another article on illiteracy
 : an advertisement for effective resumes
 : a photo-spread on Caribbean colors for livable living rooms

then we make love
he is gentle
i am not

i want to wound
i want to be lonelier than lonely

i have my fantasies: personal solutions
are political ones  no one
lives on the other side of my windows

7.

even with low heels and dressed in a dark blue success suit
she stumbles
again and again
on that same crumbled curb outside the mirrored building

the dimensions of her office are exactly
the same as those inhabited by men

on her desk is a pile of papers
she has learned to call documents
just as she has learned to call
her job a career
just as she has learned to speak English

to feel lucky
to forget the women walking the streets
            the woman sleeping on the street
            the wind swirling newspapers across her
            the blood crusting almost-blue

8.

we took back the night
every year for years

we reclaimed the moon
even after men had walked there

we had our rituals
we taught them to our children

we loved each other
and our love was a revolution
and our revolution was love

it wasn’t enough
it was everything

we grew older and older
there are no words which can remember us

9.

you think to be unnamed
is to be safe?

you think buying coffee
from Nicaragua is brave?

You think your home
is comfortable?

You think there are no wounds
if you can’t see them?

You think things are different
now?
yet?

10.

the Goddess, the Goddess, the goddesses
i’ve read my ninety-ninth book
on pre-patriarchal
it’s my last
i’ve memorized those slashes on their pots
(etched by women)
i’ve dreamed those womb-like hearths
(shaped by women)

there is still wind and there is still fire
the origins of inventions
no longer concern me

i am writing a book about post-patriarchal culture
can you read it?

i am sipping a cup of mottled coffee
can you join me?

i am living my life as if—

will you?

How do you know she loved you?

Because she got a dog when I left.