Written on the day a twenty-four year-old feminist (me) wanted to quit the RC Church.
This morning, I woke up with the mission
of becoming a deserter
and never looking back again.
This mission may have made me
the perfect womanist,
leaving the most prominent
patriarchichal imprisonment behind—
finally and for good.
It would have been a sweet morning
and life tomorrow would’ve been free
of penises declaring they alone
are the only prophetic body
leading toward… up.
This morning, I was ready,
but… time wasn’t, just yet!
And so I let Saturday close Town Hall,
my flu keep me in bed a little longer
and my Mama talk reason to me for a while.
When things get difficult, she’s right,
we all can become deserters;
then we’re rid of the problem,
and the problem rid of us.
Or we can close our eyes
and suspend all other senses
and pretend it isn’t there,
but the only legitimacy here lies
in it being a mechanism to cope
with the fact that we’re out of ammunition
or never had any to begin with.
Or. I remain a part of it
in some way, shape, and form,
the only requirement here is:
I do it closely so!
And if the enemy is close
I know, at all times, about their paths
and can let the lion roar
and they can howl right back
and perhaps we’ll start, together,
that revolution song!
And then, my irritation becomes theirs,
and I need to worry no more
…or at least less so now that all of us know
the games, they have begun!
And in the end, this matter is the least,
because at the heart of all importance
is the faith as Jesus once lived
and died for at last
—once, once and for all.