Misogyny

I see you, great literary men, holding a party
Just beyond me. You are loving and greeting
Each other while I’m caught in the junk room
Of your misogynies: mahogany furniture
Shipped from crises on older continents,

Is blocking my way. Massive and polished,
They shine in the gloom, recalcitrant. Grand
Lyrical Men who tried to f*ck me
(You know who you are) I see you wave in
Those who you favour, leaving me pinned

To the wall by a linen press. Brass teeth,
Ferocious, snap at my nipples. An insistent caster
Sucks at my mouth, while a cabriole leg
Juts up my jacksie. Aggressive chattels
Of others’ unstated fears. What do you see In me so disgusts you? What has to be
F*cked then blotted out so that you
Can bear it? That you were babies once,
Helpless? That the world’s a bad breast, doesn’t
Obey? Or, horror of horrors, the will

Doesn’t work and power’s beside the point.
Grow up. This is your junk and I refuse it. From
My dead end, I see others in traps of ice
And iron, we wave at each other, we’re coming,
Your days are numbered. So will we project

Onto you, make you a hedgehog, pierced
By your furniture’s splintering? No.
Look, here’s my mother’s clothes horse,
What if we cover it with a blanket
Making a room where anyone may play,
And learn not being afraid together?