You talk about women,
The need to groom and travel without losing composure,
To wake up adorned with expensive jewelry and makeup,
Choosing between speaking up or staying silent, tears concealed.
But I, unfortunately, cannot join in the revelry amidst violence and chaos,
Your allure extends beyond the cheery surface,
Where everything that lives eventually decays.
You talk about women,
Stripping away everything, even a newborn’s innocent longing for love,
Your face turning pale as riches accumulate,
Yet, I yearn for the embrace of wisdom, defiant in isolation.
You talk about women,
Advocating self-destruction to avoid childbirth,
Endlessly waiting for elusive pleasures,
But I find no joy in love’s act on a carpet,
As sinister whispers echo in the air,
Your ring marking my thigh, a symbol of a rich man’s control.
You talk about women,
Supposed to be nurturing,
But in church, smoke fills the air with remorse,
Pregnant women dressed in tattered silk,
Heads severed, and you question why,
Those dreadful nights of silence at the pole.
I think I can let you go now.
Your legs rise high within the sacred place,
Knees pounding like a crowd of preachers,
I find comfort under my hat,
Even if your words carry all the falsehoods of marriage,
You insist that women are mad cannons,
As for me, alas, I only savor the idea of death.
:: 07.23.2023 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 