Dear tonight,
there are no wolves,
and full moons and howls,
just us.
Dear tonight, let me tell you our story.
Ours is a history of ab-use,
a lineage of grandmothers
aunts and sisters
with blisters
nieces in pieces—
daughters and slaughter and
Skirts that will never be too long
And summers that will never be too short,
too short to learn
that our bodies are battlefields;
there are wars waged in between our legs and
there are wars in pulling
and pushing
leaning out
leaning in
and our mouths and bellies
are voids that need
to be filled,
so spill
in maps of red and blue on our backs that are bent
and spent, in an economy
of machines and grease
and macho and nachos
with cheese we ease
and appease—
We learn to make the perfect cake.
In hands that are caked with our sweat, we fret
Instructions are inscriptions in the heart of our palm,
crossing over the lifeline and fate line like a fault line
and just like that when the earth gives in
bellowing and yellowing,
We fall through the cracks, we are slipping and tripping rubble
We learn never to create trouble
And that danger is the stranger in the black minivan
and we are so busy fighting wheels and vans that we can
not see that our castle is a dungeon made of glass
and that danger is stranger than we thought it would be
it lurks in relation and acquaintance just as easily
in cocktail parties and classrooms and movie theatres and
our bedrooms.
We are groomed to be perfect—
Little girls who should be seen and not see,
And little boys who can never be Man,
we are our own problem;
in between clothes
that are starched
and throats that are parched
and brows that are arched,
lay curfew and
deadlines
and headlines
and the boundless
night.
//
Our family tree is gnarly,
The leaves have left and the roots are always right,
And we are more than our presences.
Ours is a history of
Omission.
Derision, violence
and silence—
ours is a history of absences.
And as I cut my umbilical dis-cord,
I tell you this my child,
That whether you’re mild or wild
you must remember—
there is an ember within you
And our bodies are battlefields,
Scars are reminders that you are stronger than you thought,
And your eyes show you are more than the wars you have fought,
And there are revolutions
In your mind
And mind you,
you are not the fire on the pyre,
you are a universe of verse, for better or worse
and you will collapse and crumble
you are the bread on your plate,
only to rise like the flames in the fireplace,
Dear tonight,
there are no wolves,
and full moons and howls,
just us.
Tonight, let me tell you our story—
Yours is a history of survivors—
The billowing sails of your skirts
and you are your own compass,
and summers are long enough for you to find yourself,
and your body and your mouth and your belly
can shout from clouds as loud as anyone—
that you are enough. Always.
and you will lead like you have been led,
and you will read like you have been red,
and you will say what has to be said.
By you.
René Sharanya Verma is a feminist, spoken word artist and an aspiring feminist film theory major and filmmaker. They are passionate about the possibilities and challenges of intersectional feminism, lip sync battles, pop culture references and good food.