Sunday, October 13, 2019

There are certain women

There are certain women
Who keep their own secrets closely
Who believe the words of certain men
That they sinned in the Garden and so
Must suffer shameful acts


Some who will not hear, do not remember
Who will not believe a child who has no reason to lie
Who has nothing to gain from lying
Whose 'lie' will bring only sorrow and shame
On the child, on all women, on their family


They nonetheless cannot listen
These women will not hear
They are doing all they can, they reason
They must attend to important things
They conflate the confessions with confusion


Their child is merely an extension of themselves
And as they care not for themselves
Will not hear their own inner truth
It's natural to neglect the children
Children have vivid imaginations, they say


But they must protect the poor men
Stand behind them, beside them
Give them the chance to explain away
The 'misunderstanding'
Excuse their misbehavior


Because the men are weak, they know
Driven by urges that they cannot control
Girls must understand
That men are not responsible or
Accountable for their desires


Girls must be so careful, they opine
They must stop tempting the helpless men
By being born female
By being irresistible
When they are 5 years old

There are certain men

(for Tania)

There are certain men
Who prey in secret
Then pray in public
And tell us to pray for 
Forgiveness for our awful sin 
Of being born 
Without a penis


It is such a heinous and unforgivable act
To exist, and be joyful, without one
That they feel honor-bound by some bizarre code
To provide us with one, thrusting it upon us
Repeatedly until their burden is lightened
Their mission fulfilled


We are expected to accept 
This unsolicited gift gratefully
Blessed by the bestowing
Our innocence defiled
Our purity shrouded in a veil of 
Translucent musty fluid


We are taught to keep their precious treasure 
Private, to share it with no one because
It's special. They are special. We are special
Don't tell, don't tell: it's our special time
Our special game, our special secret
Who doesn't love a secret?


Then the confusion comes
As our small brains calculate 
The elaborate mathematics


If we are bad and the secret is special
Is it a reward?
If he is good and we are dirty
How will this blessing cleanse us?
If specialness is good
Why can't we tell anyone?


If we tell the truth why are we punished when
We’re told it's a sin to tell a lie?
If we talk about it, why will our whole family suffer?
What about when it hurts?
What about the nightmares?
We suffer in silence; we suffer alone.


The men are governed by their magic scepter
That royal wand which creates their pleasure
And destroys our purity
It is their god-given power
An authority bestowed by a deity who created
The concept of eternal punishment


Somewhere there is a set of scales
In the other world perhaps, but
Maybe here, in each moment
Where we measure these things
What is the atomic weight of Truth?
How does an omission tip the balance?


We calibrate in our tiny minds the heft
Love versus Truth versus Lies
Lies versus Pain versus Love
The scales sway, sometimes wildly
Then imperceptibly as we learn to balance
Fear against Survival


Then one day comes a righteous Anger
That ignites and melts the entire contraption
The weights, the scales, the secrets, the lies
And all that remains is 
The fruit of the Tree of Knowledge
Which allows us to discern between good and evil


And, starving, we eat
And we surely do not die
We eat until we are satisfied at last
Our hunger quelled 
Because we know
Even when no one believes us


We know



Andrine de la Rocha

October 13, 2019