Durable, flexible, intelligent,
Best workhorses ever created.
Eyes pained.
Backs flogged.
These its,
These puny its have no value.
Mouths starved.
Necks choked.
Shoulders bruised.
Torsos kicked.
These its,
These puny its have no voices.
Legs spread wide.
Ears boxed.
Faces slapped.
Hair unkempt.
These its,
These puny its have no value.
Who are these its?
Forgotten and unacknowledged,
Running, pleading, fearing for their lives.
These its,
These puny its have no voices.
The brunt of war carried in their flesh.
While men pat themselves on the back for heroism.
These its,
These puny its have no value.
Oh, women of the world,
I know today is Mother’s Day,
But your its are being attacked.
Bellies impregnated by rape,
Faces scarred by encrusted, scabrous hands,
Disfigured bodies with lost limbs,
These its,
These puny its have no voices.
Slaughtered,
Murdered,
Gassed,
Shot down,
Their psyches damaged.
These its,
These puny its have no value.
Hands grabbed,
Bound and cast to the ground,
Legs spread wide and raped,
Whore,
Bitch,
Slut,
Cunt,
Their Psyches branded.
These its,
These puny its have no voices.
Oh, women of the world,
Today is Mother’s Day,
But these its are our sisters,
Shouldn’t our voices become theirs?
This poem is dedicated to every woman trapped by war at this moment wherever they are, in whatever country.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Shalom,
Pat Garcia
