the stars are all ash
bit coins drank all the water
and free costs too much
There’s little in the frig,
only a bottle of rage
because the last peach
on the tree only lasted a day.
misogyny’s knack
for division and attack
replays same music
As a woman I don’t trust
the bats in his belfry
don’t know my name,
because I’ve never played nice
or danced under a man’s thumb.
so I question here
with my eyes focused there
plotting my escape
©Susie Clevenger 2025
I am right there with you, my friend. I refuse to let them drive me mad, but I reject their every word vociferously.
ReplyDeleteWe've gone through the looking glass for sure, and it's a bad trip. That last tercet seals the deal in this poem. Say, did you always have your tags down there in the tiny print? I only just noticed them! I thought it was just Blogger info until now. My old eyes don't play well with small print.
ReplyDeleteThose first two stanzas kick off the poem like fireworks, or machine gun fire, something we hear too much in the outside world and fear on the inside til that bottle of rage overflows, here, into some powerful poetry. Couldn't agree with you more, and dancing under thumbs is not a trick I want to learn this late in life. A fine piece of writing, Susie, nailing the current malaise.
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