In this orchard
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| Marguerite au Sabbat, 1911 Pascal Adolphe Jean DAGNON-BOUVERET Le musée d'Art et d'Histoire. Cognac, France. |
red, juicy spheres
decorate my tree.
Life in monthly fruit forms.
“Eve in punishment”,
he tells me.
Descending, ever paying
for the sin of love, of beauty
and of liberty.
This is the word of God.
It is the truth,
as recorded
by Man.
He sees me as a factory.
He strains, disgusted
at his lust, his want of me.
Appalled
at my cries, he denies me
the rare sweet joy.
He withdraws.
Time is time, and time again.
It comes in cycles.
Tidal waves
wax and wane.
Bijoux babies - my escape
from his oppression.
Lovingly
I cradle them.
Innocent of him, they
grow to ignore his rhetoric.
They care not for dictators.
At fifty, flux and fucks
diminished, here’s the last.
The life within is precious.
It kicks inside my cauldron.
I am woman,
welcoming the love of man and
wishing this man
would love this woman equally
as mother of
his children, clan, his
swelling brood.
If he can’t treat the wife he chose
with warm respect
and dignity
I’ll take our babes to
live our lives alone,
away from Christian eyes
and judgement.
Wise, safe sanctuary.
Man’s time is over.
Time is time, and time again.
Ours is now and for the first time,
mine
will soon begin.
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