Irritations

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.