My name is my submission to male dominance
     I am somebody's daughter,
     somebody's wife.
I willingly call myself so
     It's because I love my father
     I love my husband
And I am honoured to be called
In his name
Usually

But sometimes
When a ray of anger rushes into my heart
By the feminine idea of self-respect
I wonder
     if my father loves me, why is his love trumping of my mother who bore me inside her body for months of restless ease?
     if my husband loves me, why has he never consider calling himself Mr. Mine, where he my husband and I his wife?

But I tuck these thoughts away
They are too balancing of power, too simply different.
I mustn't let the patriarchy hear, or I will dishonour my worth
As a woman.

At times what a man can own
Is a house, some land, a home
A woman, a wife, his daughters
But not his sons or his father

A man's voice is respected unless his pitch is too high
Because a woman's voice seems just way too shy
And a high voice sounds like a woman's: inferior
Because all we are judged by is our exterior

He does not typically write sweet refrains
He does not feel any monthly pains
His feelings are for the inside
He doesn't love, only shows pride

And how does he go on living thusly,
Showing love, but only roughly?
Where does he grow? Can he ever know
That his own son's heart groans when he goes
About spouting prideful privileged words?
They attack me like preying birds

And I am the fawn, to whom no one belongs
I am the heartbeat and the aching due to wrongs
I am the taken aback by art
I am the trembling of a heart

So then here I sit, so very distant from him
Yet still a mirror image of him.
With my chromosomes resembling his,
I observe roses while he throws words like fists

He possesses objects even if they're humans
He tells them what to do for his own amusement,
Locking his heart far away until it becomes
A fabled leviathan he keeps from his sons

Dear Patriarchy, how you've stolen my claim to normality!
How your disadvantaging of others is an intrinsic reality!
Keep your *****, dying hands away from me
Your grasp forms almost everything I can see

I didn't want you upon entering this earth
I haven't wanted you since the day of my birth
But my rebirth has found me dying from what you do
While you're slowly decimated, We all still die too

My body listens to my commands.
Back straight, stomach in, legs together.
I have trained it well enough to not sway to the whims of other hands.
The back of my neck has learnt to not tingle at a touch anymore.
The lips don’t quiver when someone says my name.
Boot camp ***** is under control, captain.
No one crosses the line that has been crossed before.
We don’t speak of it,
but the legs did open before they knew how to behave.
With a sneak attack from the side,
And right between my thighs, I found fingers exploring
me like someone walking into the restricted section of the library
with caution and excitement, but all disregard for the rules.
There were no rules then, rather.
My body froze in attention.
I was a pawn and I moved one inch at a time as asked.

My mind led the coup to reclaim the kingdom of my body.
Pleasure remained locked behind doors
And muffled in pillows.
Obedience was learned
when the body woke.
Stay woke, stay woke, stay woke.
I am my own marching band now.
I am my own army.
I fight every day
Defending
Disagreeing
Shoving
Hiding
Covering
Curling in
Curling up
Shouting out
Screaming in.

Fight on, little soldier.
Seek your own pleasure.
But keep your back straight,
your eyes bright,
your laughter in pitch
And your legs closed.

Tools of the Patriarchy

Fence pliers, claw hammers, crescent wrenches
Nail sets, c-clamps, wood planes, mitre boxes
Come-alongs, White Mule gloves, ball-peen hammers
Jumper cables, wood planes, mill bstrd files

Plumb bobs, twist bits, cross-cut saws, ripping saws
Tire irons, air compressors, pressure gauges
Brace-and-bits, drawing knives, pneumatic jacks
Cold chisels, clamps, mortar trowels, channel locks

A twelve-hour day plus d*mned low pay, you bet!

And

A work ethic, knowledge, muscles, and sweat

Mind your manners
Mind how you speak
Mind the hemline of your dress,
         and the curves of your *******
Mind your business
Mind your make-up
Mind your desires
Mind your men,
                 because don’t you know that
                 ‘behind every great man lies a woman’?
Mind your mind,
          for your thoughts even,
                  are too risky for our youth
Mind your Truth
Mind your Self
Mind your entire beautiful Being,
           but please
                   for the love of God,
don’t mind this when we’re in bed

--PY

♀  ♀  ♀

Hey you! In the ******-hat,
frumpy feminist dressed in pink;
we men (what do you make of that)
would love to know just what you think.

We've heard of "***-hats", anyway.
But we can see the other side:
it's orificial bombs away
as bridegrooms now behold the bride.

Gynecology on parade:
how weird. You think it makes your point?
It's more a vaginal charade,
and promises to disappoint.

You say your cap evokes your *****;
feline foolishness, I say.
It's cat in bag when fems get fussy
showing patriarchs the way.

Show us yours and we'll show our own.
Well actually, it's kind of cold
to whip it out right here downtown...
We'll grant you this: you chicks are bold.

Your choice-aborted progeny,
disposed of in the clinic's trash,
might blame you for misogyny—
though spared the curse of diaper rash.

We'll keep abreast of all you do,
chanting, marching, fists in air...
yet still, you seem a silly crew
aflush with zeal (and ***** hair).

But must it always come to this:
biology devoid of God ?
Exteriorizing, hit and miss,
the secrets of your aging ***...

Those radical change-agents Femen
set the men-folk to hawin' and hemin'.
When the girls bared their best
all the boys were impressed.
(Keep abreast of the movement, you womyn).