The problem for women
with skin that might be named for paint swatches
            like ivory, muslin, chalk
            or, yes, colonial cream
with wombs in place since birth
with bodies oblivious to accessible options,

the problem for feminist women
    with skin and wombs and bodies like that
            like this           
            is:

we don’t like being told
            to be quiet
            to sit still
            to listen while someone else
                        someone not us          
                                    speaks
                                    even if that someone
                                    is also a woman;

we have had enough of being told to sit down and shut up
we chafe and bristle and snap
because ours has been the neck beneath the boot so often
            ours
            and our mothers
            and our grandmothers
            and our great great great great greats
that we’ve forgotten how to tell when it’s our foot
            encased in leather
            our weight pressing down down
                                                                  down
            on another’s throat and always has been.

But the problem is our problem
and sometimes we need 
            all of us
            with skin and wombs and bodies like that
sometimes we do just need
            to sit the fuck down
            and shut the fuck up
                        to surrender the stage the spotlight the spittle-flecked mic
                        and listen
                        and listen
                        and learn all that it is we do not know.

* With all respect and gratitude to Flavia Dzodan, whose furious words taught me much.

This poem was written in 2022 for a local spoken word event, back when I did that sort of thing. It feels right to share it here now.