Always a Man
There’s always a man
On the corner by the clinic
Telling women what’s what with their bodies.
He cries about the babies,
The babies being killed in the baby killing factory
and how the remains get made into the chicken nuggets served in public school lunches.
Or at least that’s what it sounds like to me,
Since I’m about as sentimental as an old shoe
and as nurturing as an acid oasis.
And he doesn’t speak my language.
His language is the language of old men.
The language of burning witches
and marrying off little girls to old men like him.
It is the tongue of ten thousand years of silencing.
Ten thousand years of raping.
Ten thousand years of telling what’s what with women’s bodies.
There’s always a man on the sky,
telling the man on the corner what’s what
In a conversation that other men began long ago
In a language I don’t speak,
but always translates to
power over women.
And I won’t hear of it.