I am not a feminist.
I will never be.

I do not want a seat
at the old oak table of power—
I am building my own
in the forest clearing,
smoke in my hair,
with bread enough for everyone
who comes unarmed.

I am not here to become a warrior.
I am here to become
a whole woman—
moon-full and tidal.

Strong wrists, round belly.
Voice like honeyed thunder,
legs still trembling
from dancing bare
in our midsummer ruins.

Witches were burned,
suffragettes silenced.
They would not kneel
even with fire lacing their feet.

I will not salt their ashes
by sanding myself down
trimmed to fit in a music box,
planed smooth,
or shaped like a man.

I can roll the boulder myself—
and still, some days
I will ask you to do it with me.

We were born to be feral—women.
Fragile, and unbreakable,
thorned and milk-heavy,
glass-hearted and iron-boned,
capable of anything, but
not meant to carry everything.

Think not, that this is weakness,
it takes courage
to stand barefoot slick stones
in a raging river.

I’m not here with a torch for men—
I carry the lantern of balance
for the long exhale
of this burning world.

Equality is not identical slices
from one dry cake—
some of us are hungry for fruit,
some crave salt, and
some are here for nothing at all.

Before gender,
we are breath and bone,
dark blood racing
through our veins.

You cannot build a new world
with fists full of the old—
only with dirty hands,
rooted in living mystery.

I dragged the old oak table
out of the courthouse,
into the moss.

Sit—
if you’re tired like me
from carrying the weight
of borrowed swords.

~

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