Written in Fall 2014 for Class - EN304: Writing of Poetry (Boston University)
They call ships 'she'
the same way we tell boys not to cry
and instead to kiss the bruises on girls' knees
after they've pushed them on concrete.
They call their weapons 'lady'
the same way they kiss their guns
in sweet silent prayer,
caressing every surface of hard sleek metal
before digging the graves of other men.
They weaponize our bodies as a humiliation.
A reminder that we are less than men,
unless harnessed in the form of war.
As if war was easy.
I am Joan’s fire,
damned by men’s fear.
I am Sylvia’s Lazarus,
red hair and rage.
I am Lilith,
the she-devil that refused
I am the ash of the witches
they could burn.
My terror isn't yours to hold
My flame, not yours tame
My head of snakes not yours to gaze.
But watch my wrath in ships launched in my name.
My rage isn't yours to bind,
not mine to hold,
but for you to fear.