Her name, like a ticking of a bomb…

Writing in neon across the air
moving unsteadily on the edge of the cosmos
falling through space and time from slippery woman's womb
like my blood
I keep flowing
my heart aches
my womb pulls me towards the earth…

Life,
not easy
nor reasoned
for truth is crude…

Her name sounds like a ticking of a bomb
she is the history of rejection
of who she is
of the terrorized imprisoned of her self,
of assault series
against whatever she wants to do
with her mind, body and soul
a problem everyone seeks to eliminate by force
by the limitless armies…

She is a human, a woman
her blood is shed into silence
her death falls to earth
to be washed away
with the desert rain
in silence…

Robbing her of the right she hold dear
turning her thoughts away
from the life of her heart portrays
to live as unknown…

degraded
scorned
oppressed

O woman,
why does your name sound
like a ticking of a bomb?
O injured lady,
rise!
resume your native empire
assert your rights
grid yourself with grace
you have the wit,
the art
do not sleep your life away
refuse to be an interior decorator
O Lovely sister,
listen!
my word is not bauble
but a speculum
for the pages of my dreams
are flipped by the desert wind
of my inscriptions...


March 8, 2008