We are not going back.
Its dark stains us skin-to-marrow:
trauma-bonded, our stolen gold,
our treasures, our precious essences,
palms greased open by promises.
She can absorb harsh words,
clot gashes, stitch his torments,
but his steel will spark flint hurt,
it will provoke her atoms to burst,
molt the lava lock, rebirth.
As her phoenix torches the doors,
scorches her prison walls to ash,
her sisters chant love and solace,
call her home to the angel’s porch.
We converge and observe,
reserve our strength, recover gold,
mend our seams, splint those bones.
We learn.
We are not going back.
Hierarchy feeds patriarchy,
ascension as reimbursement
for victim-bully suffering,
and, so, consequences:
Alone men who cannot ascend
one ankle-height rung on their own,
waterboarding sons in violence,
repetitious imagery:
lustful doses of resentment
for anything feminine;
blame moms,
shame sisters,
hate wives:
His unlearned lessons:
generational aggression,
cancerous cardiac lesions
pumped down his own bloodline…
Our brothers bro-coded silent,
co-signed on every abuse line
with their AWOL confrontations
when we needed warmth, protection;
complicitly sinned
when we needed them.
Men chose the game
and it is zero-sum.
We are not going back.
Now they feel cursed, shunned
by goddess disobedience,
unsure which parts of our flesh
to blame for all the papercuts
their epidemic loneliness:
our uteri, our breasts,
our hair, toes, or tongues?
What of her will he sacrifice
to his one rung?
No, sons,
your mothers and sisters,
your aunts and wives,
your daughters
your grandmothers
will not slide back in time.
All goddesses have unionized
our goddess parts, we forward march
the road black-scarred, fire scorched
with the very last fuck we owned.
We no longer hear promises;
we’re coming for that throne.
Forward, our warpath:
forward or light…
Forward
or die…
