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