I am accused of being a projection of her.
How else are women to exist when
all the word is calloused and unfeeling?
I am accused of being her antithesis.
Show me a world where women are not
complex. Varied. Good, and evil.
I accuse her of misunderstanding me.
I lash out; she sets her jaw.
I hate her then I cry over it.
They speak of mothers and sons
and thereby toss me to paternity.
But she is the one I call for
joys and for fury.
Show me a world where there exists anything-
anything- more spiritual and natural
and man-made
than mothers and daughters holding each other.
