I think of all the women
I am made of
A long line of survival
That stretches back
200,000 years
Each one passing
Her ability to survive
On to her daughter
And I wonder
How many of them felt
She had no control over her future.
That her happiness
Rested completely in the musings of men.
Is this why
It comes so easy to me
To remain quiet
And let men decide?
200,000 years of procreation
Selecting women
Who held their tongues
No
The women I am made of
Had to fight off
Sabre tooth tigers
And figure out
How to make bread for the first time
A woman
Saw a plant
And thought
I’ll grind that up and make it into a paste and bake it
That woman must have known
She was the equal
To a man
It is obvious
That I learned
To be docile
In this lifetime
A product of this culture
I was born into
My demureness a byproduct
That I am trying to shed
Because all those women
Who gave birth
To a woman
That didn’t die
From disease
Or sabre tooth tigers
Or eating raw yeast
That led to me
Deserve to be heard
Partly Moony 