But, That’s Not What They Were Fighting For

The day Maitú snuck out,
to slit her ears,
to wear hangi,
I am sure she didn’t envisage
the day, when girls are stripped
      on streets.
When she, went back and
undid the deed,
I am sure, she did not see,
live video feeds,
Of legs apart on back seats,
with a voice
calling for a bottle.
There are those of us, who never had the chance
to meet grandmas,
who with their husbands names,
hidden under their teeth,
passed on violently, and loyally
at the hands of oppressors.

This what we have here,
This #Mollis era,
     This is not
What they were fighting

I’m Here

I’m here.

To sing a song of strength

Of which history bears testament.

Here to speak up and be present,

The evidence of her resilience.


I’m here to chop down the tree,

Whose seed, I wasn’t in time to bite,

To eat, so it would never have sprouted.


Here to kill the tree, whose bark,

Covered with rot, has lost its spark.

Whose fruit has never seen the light of day.


This tree who shades her from her light,

Who shields her from

Her ancient might!

This trees name, is victimization.


I’m here right now. To shout at her,

That we may yield a serrated, saw.

And banish it forever.

Without it we are Mother Earth.

Our fertile, minds,

To our world, give birth

To love

To hope

To continuity.

The Dust She Leaves

But then again, life does go on.

So it may not be as serious as it seems.

She may not see or breath again,

but the dust she leaves will catch sun beams.


Her name’s not on a headline,

she isn’t famous, or important.

She’s beautiful, she catches stares,

but then again, there are lots of those.


She’s scared, afraid, in her own room,

the strikes come fast as he does.

Her food is tasteless as her tears ,

Neither neighbor, nor mirror see her.


Her problems are someone else’s,

so everyone else believes.

Her world is shut in, broken.

No matter where, she’s on her knees.


One day, “he’s just a bit too drunk…”

“He just had a bad day…”

She shrieked louder than ever,

But he’d never heard a word she’d say.


But then again, life does go on.

So it may not be as serious as it seems.

She may not see or breath again,

but the dust she leaves,

will catch sun beams.


My Face

My face has mountains

and Valleys, lush, life

giving terrain.

Seeds latent, waiting for rain.


You come to me, speaking

in languages that I don’t understand

until I feel them.

But those are just stories I hear.


First I must be silent inside.


We must slice, from my temple down.

On either side.

Take off my face completely.


My nose, you see…

May lead me, to like, to want, to anticipate and salivate

at the prospect of the pleasure of dancing.

This we don’t want.


My lips may form a channel of moisture that can contribute

to a miniature lake of

spent desire.

We don’t want that either.


The mouth; the greatest offender.

It may consent to be fed, to be watered.

Alow an intruder to climb in and till it.

Should I allow it?

That, we really don’t want.


I am a child, yes.

But what goes on in my mind, may blind me from morals

that should be enshrined

so cut out my mouth,

lest I feel inclined,

to speak freely,

words that are babies.


You see, my words,

are babies.

Either fully formed, or merely conceptual.

So cut out my mouth,

as regular childbirth is not enough of a hurdle.

Though, I’ve heard, the scar tissue may kill my first-born.

Or if I’m lucky, ensure that my colon is torn.

Cut out my mouth,

so my father can feel warm,

in the knowledge that he sired a true woman.


Remove my face from me

I should not see, I should not breathe.

Remove my face completely.

I should never have the chance to speak freely.

I have no value, as God made me, functionally,

responsive with flexibility.

To let mother nature have her way with my body,

would mean,

endless shame to my family.


So Please. Cut out my face.


So I can be…