A Poem for The Patriarchy
We who came into this world with bullets laid upon tongue
Refugee nerves bundled together,
We sons of slaughter:
Sung to sleep, all men, by The Patriarchy.
Even the best of us, kept conscious by feminists and meditation,
We allies at best, are kept locked and stowed,
privileged in the power hold by birth-right passed on from The Patriarchy.
We who breathe armada, and spit tobacco war
Fists kept loaded and cocked at our side,
We sons of surnames:
Sung to sleep, sweet carpentry, all men, by The Patriarchy.
In the hibiscus tanks of our clarity,
We roll steel-plated boots over the gardens
Where true knowledge grows,
Where humility heals,
Terrorism feels familiar,
We who steal chamomile and
chromosomes,
Our cells, sung to sleep, all men, by The Patriarchy
In our bodies,
Vertebrae stands sentinel,
And stares warfare, a family friend, in the face;
Say to him, taste this flavor of nuclear arms race - my hydrogen love.
With a mouthful of artillery we
Swagger casual coastlines, broken levees,
Til sisters fold their hands, forfeit sense and calm,
Surrendering: they commit to competition,
Prison tower surveillance:
We snipers, kneeling on the rooftops of our mothers’ backs,
Fingers trembling caffeine precision,
Sung to sleep, all men, by The Patriarchy.
We who came into this world broken in
Like leather, smelling like suede,
God’s son speaking domination,
Impatience for the secret wisdom of seasons -
Sung to sleep, soldiers keep formation, all men, by The Patriarchy.
Listen, I say, listen to the static that surround us.
That keeps us diesel and complicit,
Keeps us boiled and separate.
Beneath the frequency of gender’s living infection,
Still, there is life there.
Still, there is life there.
Still, there is life there.