When did, ‘You can be
Anything’, become –
‘You must be everything’.

The mother, the provider, the
Teacher, the preacher
Of hopes and dreams for

Millennial babies. Their lot
In life cast only by themselves.
An epic of their own making.

9-5 then home again,
To dishes and husbands,
Both alike in tediousness

The warrior of sleepless
Nights, lost teeth, and
Abandoned dreams.

My mother was a Mosuo,
Her grandmother an Amazon,
Matriarchs of power

Who ruled as iron ladies.
Wooden spoons were
Their guns, and

Aprons their armour,
With a flint-like stare,
And perfectly curled hair,

They convened court in
Their sitting rooms with
Cups of tea and an intelligent

Eye; that told tales, tales
Of a proud matriarchal
Ancestry, a dynasty.

‘You are one of us,
Dear millennial baby,
A future queen whose

Kingdom will be your
Kitchen, a place where
No man dare step’.

I am not a feminist
Nor a suffragette or
A dictator. I am a

Millennial baby, and
My dreams are not aligned
With the ancestral stars.

I am a daughter and a
Sister, my voice is cast
From the silent mountains

Who rise like towers to the east,
To the drought stricken
Valley that grows more

Brown and crinkled with
Each day. Do you hear me
Now spirits of old?

You tell me to be a lawyer
So I will teach. My hopes
Do not align with your stars.

I am watched by
Eager eyes for the time
In which I may rise as queen.

Those eyes will be disappointed.
For millennial babies do not
Become queens. They are

A pair of ******* with legs,
To be gawked at by the peanut-
Crunching gallery of

Men. Men. Men. Those
Who reign in the bedroom
where their power is greatest.

‘You are Otrera. Esther.
Joan of Arc. You are Rosa Park,
Portia, Ophelia, Deborah’

Those matriarchs seem to
Say. ‘You are a matriarch,
Uphold our legacy!’

O mother how I grieve you. Survivor of a thousand
Summers, you take your place in the song
Of mothers long past. You are not alone there,
O wise one, your mother, and her mother
Have taken your hand and lead you in to a dream.
A dream where I can not follow.

I think of Otrera the warrior queen, of wives
beaten down only to arise as phoenixes.
O brave Amazon, your legacy lives on in Hippolyta and
Hermia, your wild daughters becoming women.

Beyond her is Jael, O wife of a Kenite, and the
Mutilated corpse of Sisera, the foolish king
Who thought her weak. Your blood waters the
Dust, your handsome face cracked right through
By her mighty blow. O great king, will you
Scorn her femininity now?

When I am weary, I shall think of Elizabeth,
A queen who sunk an armada and reformed
The churches with a single order. Where is
Your husband? You have no need of him.

They are joined by Boudica and
Her wild head of curls. I believe you
Will be good friends O warrior of
Sleepless nights. For you have both
Spat in the eyes of men and defied your
Empires for the sake of freedom.

Sylvia holds your hand tenderly now,
O mother of my youth. Her torment has
Passed now, and so will yours too. For
A dream is too ethereal a place for scars.

I wondered if you would be afraid
When you took your place among the
Mothers of the ancients, and yet time has
Showed me a picture of you, holding court
Amongst them with your steaming *** of
Lady Grey. Graceful as a queen.

Your children who live on in this world
Will remember you. O wise one,
You eat men like air. And like a
Phoenix I will become you.