Words I Could Not Say

The room is empty. Fitting, really, as he empties his life into his stomach. Manipulation would have been my strong suit. A simple "this lovely meal is for husbands only, my dear. You've earned it" slips from my eyes to her mouth seamlessly. My sister and I are the only to watch on, the anticipation too great to look away, despite the crafted horror. I watch as bite after bite of his own flesh is stuffed past those fat, greasy lips. Lips that, seconds ago it seems, were trailing hate and silence across my untouched skin. Skin that shares blood with his meal.

I want to scream, to fight, to scorn. Tereus deserves all of the words he took from me; each and every aching syllable of defiance he stole is coursing through the veins that were severed. I can feel them still, a ghost appendage shaping the weapons I cannot throw. He takes another bite and asks about the boy. I'm begging for my voice. I want him to hear me as I tell him of his masticated son.

Instead, he hears Procne's placid lilt, "He has come in."

His nostrils flare and I am back in the dark density of underbrush. My thoughts incoherent as seafaring devolves into cat and mouse, I the prey. His brotherly musk absent, replaced by greed, lust, envy, and perhaps the rest of those deadly siblings. I cannot succumb. Motionlessly shaking, I hear my truth claw its way out of my raw throat and burst into the spoiled air encircling us. "If there is any god in Heaven, will hear me." Perchance they knew they were the epilogue, fearing being lost at the back of the line. And then, with the hot edge of his sword, they were gone.

Now I stand, vengeance at my fingertips and fire in my throat. I hold the proof of the light that has been put out in my grasp, the downy hair reminding me of the two innocences lost in his plight. Never before have I wished for speech so dearly as now. Had I the ability, I would tell him my story. Force upon him like he forced upon me the will to power. In this moment, I can feel my strength seeping back through each orifice it fled from before. I am in control. For Tereus to bear witness to this independence, for his ears to take in the words themselves, is my final wish. And though it is not to be, I feel as though I have accomplished what I needed in order to feel released from this man's grasp. I feel joy like I have not before known. It is a freedom.

I know this in these moments before I toss at him the giblets of his feast. The weight of young Itys' head fleeing my hands is the finality of my burden. As it thunks on the table and rolls idly towards its father, I see the tides change. Smugness turns first to confusion, then to horror and rage. Burning. It is an all too familiar progression and I feel pride as I shove it down his throat. A thought occurs that I should, too, cut out his tongue, but it passes as he turns to physicality in place of words. He was not a very intelligent man to begin with, why should I expect sensibility now? The overturned table matches the ruin of our lives and I am glad to be rid of it as my long arms morph into the wings I always knew they were.

 

the hu(wo)manifesto

beyond this flesh – down to the bone – we are ALL inherently composed of the same balance of molecules that make us uniquely hu(wo)man. there is but ONE “race” – hu(wo)man – so why is it a race at all? Color. Class. Creed. Size. Ability. Sexuality. Gender. the hue of our largest organ can no more define one hu(wo)man's value or character from another. neither can one's genitalia, because at the heart of the matter we all bleed red – and the differences are SOCIAL CONSTRUCTS. created and maintained to offer a false sense of order. until we learn to seek and speak outside of binary thought there will always be those who are screaming to be heard - the DIS-advantaged, DIS-eased, DIS-owned, DIS-membered, DIS-enfranchised, DIS-tant, far, Far, FAr, FAR away from this time and place I believe there is a space for us ALL. a room of our own to be as unique and individual as we are – the flesh, blood, and bone members of this society – the hu(wo)mans. as a hu(wo)man one can no longer reside in apathy, a great awakening must capture every mind and heart to facilitate a new form of education. it begins with a question and snowballs into a life's work of DIS-covering one's self outside of SOCIETAL NORMS. stories must be told, heard, and passed on by every one of us in order to refrain from repeating the same oppressive cycle. cis-women, trans-women, cis-men, trans-men, boi-girls, grl-boys, two-spirit, and everyone on the fringe and in between must be afforded the same rights and access to fulfill our full hu(wo)man potential. Education. Shelter. Income. Encouragement. Parenting. Federal recognition. Acceptance. Love. Equality. Freedom. Choice. for so long as ANY are suffering from injustice, then NONE of us are free

Tear this Skin

Tear this skin to the muscle,
bone, sinew, & blood -
down to the base inside of us all
in this one race: Human

Acknowledge and honor our differences, but don't be afraid
to talk about the injustices that have been carried out because of them.

The only way to move forward is to begin the dialogue
face our fear of what may be assumed about ourselves
what does it mean for me to possess white skin
and freckles
and blue eyes
and blond hair
?????????????

What does the texture of my hair represent to me?
What does it represent to you?

How can I repair this divide in me?
To know, down to the bone, that Africa is home -
but also know that the skin I was born into represents Privilege?
and Injustice!
and Inequality!
and Violence!
and Oppression!

I want to tear off my skin.
See you and me from a new point of view -
without all the assumptions based on our epidermal layers.

I want -
I Want -
I WANT -
to go Home!

I want my body to match my passions.
Why can't I be a person of color too?
Why do I carry this oppressive cloak?
How do I make peace with my white guilt?
And how do I work to use my privilege for change?

Because
CHANGE
is certainly what we need.

 

A Womyn Undone

With frayed edges

and tattered hair

I cry out,

"Why?"

Smiling at me

the sun replies,

"Why not?"

So focused on the clouds,

I miss her message

of Light and continue on,

leaving a trail of thread.

The layers of my story

begin to unravel

and I am left

exposed.

Naked and raw,

I perfect my bite.

Stay away.

Keep out.

Wild Womyn in mourning.

Don't Touch.

Like a caged animal,

I am broke in,

broken.

Abandoning my body,

I flee to my mind.

I can always find

somewhere to hide

in my mind.

But this heart will wither and die

if I continue to hide from the sun,

so peaking out

I hear the call,

"Why not?"

"Maybe she was meant to die

and you were left to find peace."

"Your life is not over yet.

Why would you want to waste any minute

of it in anger and sorrow?"

"let go!"

"Let go!"

"Let Go!"

Shed this skin for the new

and come home to your body.

Embrace your Lover at every opportunity you have for real connection.

Love selflessly.

Let go of expectation.

Say you're welcome after each genuine thank you.

For gifts do not need retribution.

Gifts are a selfless expression of your Love.

Give your Love freely -

As though you have never been hurt,

nor experienced Loss.

Stop Being Afraid.

You can not control that which has already been laid out before you.

You are already on the path of your life -

it is time to dance.

Dance for joy, for pain, for sorrow.

Dance for light, for dark, for all shades of gray.

Dance for sex, for autonomy, for connection.

Just dance for all that you need and more.

Where do I belong?

Where do I belong?
     Right here, she answered.

No. Where do I belong?
     The same place you have always belonged, she cooed.

But, where do I really belong?
     You belong here, in the now, in the present moment.
     Your journey is unfolding exactly as it should, wisely she spoke.

Okay.

But...

Who do I belong to?
     At this, she smiled and said: You belong to Me.

 

The Mermaid

The mermaid frolicking about turns into a great light body

as she stands awestruck in the face of the divine.

I am you and you are me.

"Split a piece of wood, and I am there.

Lift a stone, and you shall find me."

Failing in passion and anger

so commingled that a piercing scream is the only audible sound.

Laughter escapes from my lips

as I feel the joy of sweet release

for so many things left unsaid.

Let us go back to the beginning now,

where I was held so tenderly

in the womb of life.

A learned be-ing

to be re-born

with my insights

about death.

And you

hold the space

with me,

as we

sigh
together.

Lovingly

I held you lovingly in my womb once,

Little light of life to send back to the stars,

Returning to the great round goddess,

To find your true family.

A Challenge to Clothes

Everyday I wake up to cover my body with threads of clothing created in poverty. By faces like mine, maybe only a different shade, usually far away from my home. Too afraid to know the real origins, I turn my white face to judge myself in the mirror. My worth in beauty is defined by more than just the color of my skin. I explain it daily by the clothes that I choose to wear, remaining blind to the massive inequalities represented within each seam, button, and thread. My daily act is one of oppression; there is no way around it. The clothes that I display speak loud and clear against the things that I believe in. My privilege prevails as each face that I encounter sits atop a coordination of clothes which represent the same. Trapped inside a cycle of denial, so that I may go through the day without the intense suffocation of guilt. The deadly whirlpool of internal thoughts, crashing together like waves of revelation, keeping me within the waters as a hypocrite. I can’t stand it anymore. Hundreds of corporations banking on the forced disadvantage of others. Ethnocentricity ingrained in the very things that I use to cover up my white skin, to hide my shame. How do I rectify any of this?

 

Medusa's Song

cold slab pressed against my cheek

threads ravaged around my body

shivering, bare, exposed, and raw

i pull myself in

frantically thrashing

to shut out the hum

the buzz

the incessant thhhhhhhh

outstretched

clawing at the marble

i reach – 

for Minerva

oh, sweet Minerva,

protect your faithful servant

i did not see him

i did not know

until his weight was thrust upon me

like a wave against the shore

and droplets rained down as he salivated

licking his lips

while pulling my hair

You must know

You must understand

my pain

my fury

my innocence

beloved Minerva

     have mercy on me

castrate the blood thirsty shark

     have mercy on me

not me

     have mercy on me

oh, my Goddess, not Me

     have mercy on Me

coiled

alone

I can hear

tearing flesh

and his breath

huh

   huh

thuh

     thuh

  thuth

thuth

  thhhh

    thhhh

layering now

I see her

My minerva

look at Me

see Me

still the thhhhhhhh

louder

lingering

loitering

ringing

raging

roaring

rising up

the tendrils encircle Me

engulf My senses

ice blue runs through My veins

the poison of envy denatures My flesh

shedding this mammals skin

I creep and roll

melting into a new body

untouched

I slither and slide

beheading the Life of those

who stare –

pass judgment –

assume

it is My turn now

to steal your life away

encase

entomb

engulf your golden locks of light and life

I can create and destroy

for all eternity

from this day forth

with all the fury

I shall be

one of three

all I have to do –

is open My eyes

Forbidden Fruit in the Family Tree

Goddessy-good, full, round, and robust with life. Did your entrails jiggle whilst your tongue clapped within your mouth? Eldest daughter, outside the norm, completely unexpected and unpredictable, was your laugh like mine?

I was a freckle-faced-eight-year-old, laughing in the car, alone with my mom, the first time the likeness was invoked. “I wish you had known your great aunt Polly. She was my favorite aunt,” sighed my mother, “You remind me of her.” Her eyes a hazy gray while lost deep within a memory. Locked and stored inside the emotional baggage packed on to her five-seven frame by years of sweets to soothe the pain of life. A life that had turned out nothing like she had imagined.

Now I see my mother as the eight-year-old, another eldest daughter of a patriarchal Mennonite family, anxiously buzzing about the farm while her mother, my grandmother, tended to the old crones' hair, Polly, and the twins, Eugina and Evalina. My mother, sitting close to Polly in order to breathe in her smell and feel the vibration of her joyful laughter. Listening to hushed, secret women jokes during this time when the men-folk were away. She must have relished in these moments of inclusion, being treated as a young-woman, not just a girl. A girl who could not own land, a home, independence, nor a higher education, for everything was controlled and defined by her father.

I once found the courage to ask my mother if she had thought my aunt Polly to be gay. A stunned, stinging gaze slapped across her face. Quickly collecting her thoughts, by grasping the frayed edge of her memory's tapestry, she proclaimed “No, she was an old maid by choice. She fell in love once, he married another, and then she lived with her twin sisters who married brothers.” I didn't bother to point out that I had been betrothed to a man once, many years ago, before meeting my wife. Nor did I choose to remind her of her first forbidden love affairs. Those memories were tucked too deep, hugging the bone, constricting the heart. Surely words as sharp as these would spur an instant death.

“She was brash and loud and funny,” the hazy look returned to my mother's face, aged by an additional eighteen years this time, “You would have really liked your aunt Polly. You remind me of her.” And that is all there is for her to say about her favorite aunt. Everything else was supposed to be defined by the chores she did, the pies she baked, and the children she cared for. She owned nothing and was completely dependent upon the generosity of her sisters' good-christian-husbands to take her in. I imagine that her failed love affair was used as a warning to all of the little girls: “You don't want to end up like your aunt Polly.” In our family, it is common knowledge that the worst fate for a woman is be husbandless and childless.

But what if Polly's love and vivaciousness were simply bigger than the social constraints of the time? What if my great aunt was the first in my family to whisper the lines of Sappho? Perhaps a lingering embrace among girl friends caused her nipples to press against her shirt, sending an electric jolt between her thighs. Could my aunt have led her own quiet revolution? Seeking a hidden pleasure within her hands, late at night, tucked between cotton sheets, remembering the scent of a woman's skin.

So where does that leave my aunt, my mother's secrets, and me? The matriarchal-black-sheep of the family, the ones who are asked to be something other than they are. “Whatever you do, just don't be you. Can't you just follow our rules? We'd all be so much happier if you could just be who we want you to be.” Instead we create a self defined road ahead for us all. My aunt an old maid by choice, my mother in a traditional marriage her parents did not approve of, and me: considered the ugliest of ducklings. I am fording the tides of exodus by building my own family. Giving voice to the secret passions within our bloodline, this is my swan song.

And as I throw my head back in joyous ruckus, I wonder, was her laugh like mine? Goddessy-good, full, round, and robust with life. Did her entrails jiggle whilst her tongue clapped within her mouth? Eldest daughters, outside the norm, completely unexpected and unpredictable, each generation surpassing the past to continue the climb towards freedom.