This bloodline is full of strong women
Figurines ice cold against the raging storm
Of emotional men, the backs on red hands
Flung against faces,
They are not porcelain, but flesh –
Sly and quick-calculating, adept in standing ground
But not stubborn, no, we can survive.
My bony shoulder is still anorexic
As my mother buries her tears in my skin –
They seep down to my heart…
Quivering with fear it stands in iron bonds
Levies around my iris as her body
Shakes the foundations of my soul.
Locked in this lonely house, we cook for him
We clean the rough surfaces and
Flash beauty in passing mirrors.
Mascara trenches never see the light of day
We know woman don’t cry with beauty,
As wilting roses are never in a vase –
Decorating these barren walls,
Shivering in our cold picture frames
Dusting, dingy, but nonetheless alive
The woman of this bloodline, we hold
Each other up so we can fall down together.
My mother’s raised me this way and
I am a strong woman, yes, to bear bruises
With make-up –
Educated to duck and bow just so I
Can cut him down from his shins.
He’s towering and lethargic –
Stands his spot in stubbornness,
And though his papers read “genius”
Although he is the numbers that make
Up our floors, curtains and clothes,
Us women here understand that he,
The father, the husband, red-faced dictator,
We know he is a coward
The weakened blood of beer
For purification, for our own safety,
We only feed to him bring him down.
