"otrera" poems
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!’
Jan 9, 2020
Jan 9, 2020 at 6:36 PM UTC