by Pat Parker
my head – hooded,
allowed to breathe,
but not to see –
a blind goat charging
“i am a man,”
the buddha said
“come with me &
i will show you
the ways of woman.”
this goat saw & felt
the blood run,
leave my body –
i could not find the eyes,
no heart, no limbs
only blood, deep dark
blood that was life
that was dead –
scraped away
with a surgeon’s knife.
scraped into regret
scraped into pain
non-existent
but real, real!
and the herds
herds of goats
herds of sheep
& the shepherds –
give me your milk
give me your wool
& we will feed you
we will protect you
the shepherds came
& taught me skills
to provide for them.
“come with me &
i will show you
the ways of woman”
& i learned
i learned hate
i learned jealousy
i learned my skills –
to cook – to fuck
to wash – to fuck
to iron – to fuck
to clean – to fuck
to care – to fuck
to wait – to fuck
& this goat-child cried
& screamed & ran
& the buddha’s smile left
& his wisdom faded
& his throne crumbled
& the buddha left &
returned a shepherd.
in that leaving
the goat-child died –
the goat-child died
& a woman was born.
For Donna
Somewhere you live
and i
am many years away,
no longer a frightened child
capable only of giving birth.
i wonder of your mother
not me –
for i have never washed you
never fed you
never touched you.
If she tells you of me
will you understand?
understand my choice =
give away part of myself
to save part of myself
If she tells you of me,
will you hate me?
i know hate.
i know the hate of your father,
i know that hate of the mothers –
who kept their children,
i will accept your hate
but my child
you can never hate me
as much as i have hated myself.
Sometimes my husband
acts
just like a man...
dishes are evil / you know
they can destroy the spirit…
Washing dishes should
be outlawed
paper plate nirvana!
long live dixie cups!
…tomorrow i am going to lose
my temper –
i will destroy all the dishes
that i missed last week –
Fuller Brush Day
Here you are, lady,
a year’s supply of room spray,
& I watch myself
walking down
my hall,
spraying for a year.
Spraying for a year,
spray here – spray there
walking down my hall
spraying room spray,
an artificial forest
wiping out city smells.
Artificial forest,
minus birds
minus squirrels,
minus dew
minus –
spraying for a year.
If you run out before
a year’s time
we’ll give you another bottle
Another bottle
a full
definite
permanent year’s bottle
permanent year
365 ¼ days
no time given
to holidays
one year,
spray for a year
phony forest
for a year
forest in my kitchen
forest in my toilet
forest in my cat box
a full time
real life forest
smelling type year.
Walking down my halls
spraying for a year
365 ¼ days
of spray
spray
spray
& I bought it.
To see a man cry –
is like watching animals
in a zoo,
say
the baby elephant
whose trunk is
too short
or my arm
isn’t long enough
and the peanuts
won’t quite reach
but fall among husks
like your tears
mating with mine
in frustration.
Even in our worst times
some part of us –
finds each other.
You can’t be sure of anything these days
You meet a really far-out man –
tells you,
he’s been on his own for years
opens car doors for you
carries packages for you
protects you from evil-doers
says he wants an intelligent, creative
woman to be his partner in life.
you marry and find
the dude is
too weak to pick up a dish
too dumb to turn on a burner
too afraid to do laundry
too tense to iron a shirt
& to top the whole thing off –
he tries to cover his incompetence
by telling YOU –
it’s women’s work.
You can’t be sure of anything these days.
Exodus
(To my husbands, lovers)
a going out or going forth;
departure.
Trust me no more –
Our bed is unsafe.
Hidden within folds of cloth
a cancerous rage –
i will serve you no more
in the name of wifely love
i’ll not masturbate your pride
in the name of wifely loyalty.
Trust me no more
Our bed is unsafe
Hidden within folds of cloth
a desperate slave
You dare to dismiss my anger
call it woman’s logic
You dare to claim my body
call it wifely duty.
Trust me no more
Your bed is unsafe
Rising from folds of cloth –
A Moment Left Behind
Have you ever tried to catch a tear?
Catch it on bent fingers.
Press it against eyelids,
And wish the moment.
Or capture bitter words
Ripped from your throat like timber
And surround them –
islands of instant.
I do not claim all possible
Creating myths of modern America.
I cannot swim an ocean.
I attempt the width of a pool.
From Deep Within
Nature tests those she would calls hers;
Slips up, naked and blank down dark paths.
Skeletons of the sea, this we would become
to suck a ray of sight from the fire.
A woman’s body must be taught to speak –
Bearing a li
fetime of keys, a patient soul,
moves through a maze of fear and bolts
clothed in soft hues and many candles.
The season’s tongues must be heard & taken,
And many paths built for the travelers.
A woman’s flesh learns slow by fire and pestle,
Like succulent meats, it must be sucked and eaten.
LIBERATION FRONTS
My hands are big
and rough & callused –
like my mother’s.
My innards are twisted
and torn and sectioned –
like my father’s.
Now - some of
my sisters see me
as big & twisted
rough & torn
callused & sectioned
definitely not pleasant,
to be around –
I.
Had i listened to my father
i would be
married & miserable
dreaming of fish
& open space
& bellowing my needs –
waiting for some one
to listen to the second run
& know –
it is difficult to be
strong –
& appear sure
no one ever believes
when you cry.
II.
Had i listened to my mother
i would be married & miserable
dreaming – praying
of security
& choking on my needs
waiting for someone
to listen to the second run
& know
It is difficult to be
quiet –
& appear sure
no one believes
when you
don’t
show your tears.
III.
My hands are big & rough
like my mother’s
my innards are twisted & torn
like my father’s
my self is
my big hands –
like my father’s
& torn innards –
like my mother’s
& they both felt
& were
& i am a product of that –
& not a political consciousness
This at last is bone of my bones
and flesh of my flesh;
she shall be called Woman,
because she was taken out of
Man.
Genesis 2:23
from cavities of bones
spun
from caverns of air
i, woman – bred of man
taken from the womb of sleep;
i, woman that comes
before the first.
to think second
to believe first
a mistake
erased by the motion of years.
i, woman, i
can no longer claim
a mother of flesh
a father of marrow
I, Woman, must be
the child of myself.
There are two things I’ve got a
right to, and these are death
or liberty. One or the other
i mean to have.
Harriet Tubman
Brother
I don’t want to hear
about
how my real enemy
is the system.
i’m no genius,
but i do know
that system
you hit me with
is called
a fist.
How do we know that the panthers
will accept a gift from
white – middle – class – women?
Have you ever tried to hide?
In a group
of women
hide
yourself
slide between the floor boards
slide yourself away child
away from this room
& your sister
before she notices
your Black self &
her white mind
slide your eyes
down
away from the other Blacks
afraid – a meeting of eyes
& pain would travel between you –
change like milk to buttermilk
a silent rage.
SISTER! your foot’s smaller,
but it’s still on my neck.
In English Lit.,
they told me
Kafka was good
because he created
the best nightmares ever –
I think I should
go find that professor
& ask why
we didn’t study
the S.F. Police Dept.
My heart is fresh cement,
Still able to mark on,
but in short time,
No,
I will not dry,
covering the streets of men
with hate
BLEW HOT SOUL SISTER
My breath leaves me –
arid words crack,
tumble, to the floor
like spilled salt.
Hate – Kill – hate – kill
That’s primitive –
Yes, primitive,
Be
Run naked thru jungles
run
run
wallow in trampled grass,
trampled,
run,
be, primitive
like sex –
filthy,
sweaty, be
hate,
my guts ache
KEEP your guns,
or you die first run
kill, hate, run
killhaterundie
primitive/free
hate kill
NO!
wet grass is sticky.
Dialogue
Mother, dear mother, I’m dying,
People are frowning at me,
I spend my time now, crying,
I don’t know what to be.
Child, dear child, I’m sad,
To know that you’ve gone astray,
Beatniks, you know, are bad,
I hope you find the way.
Mother, dear mother, I’m frightened,
They’re dropping bombs about my head,
I’m afraid to bother to make a friend,
For I’m sure she’d wind up dead.
Child, dear child, you’re silly,
The bombs are for the enemy,
And every good person is willing,
To help keep our country free.
Mother, dear mother, I’m passed,
Working my whole life away,
Trying to join a higher class,
and living in utter decay.
Child, dear child, I must, *
Show you the way to God,
First, you learn to trust,
& stop doing things that are odd.
Mother, dear mother, are you blind?
You’ve seen nothing I’ve said,
What will you do when you find,
Your child has fallen down dead?
Child, dear child, I’ll buy,
A large casket made of gold,
I’ll sit beside you and cry,
& pray to God for your soul.
With the sun –
fear leaves me
rushes to cover /
leaves lumps
like the backyard gopher
to remind me.
I am afraid
of anyone
of anything
that would harm me /
not the pain
not the act
but,
the desire.
For Michael on His Third Birthday
“What are you, Michael?”
“Black and Beautiful.”
A distant time passed
Men chained back to
back
Destined pain by cast
Slave – night men – Black
Overseers of then & tomorrow
Families born into a pack
Believing – that they borrow
Slaves – dead men – Black
Hurt – doubters of the lie
Death the only fact
Teach the son to die
Slaves – free men – Black
Slaves, dead, under ground
Fire swallows the rack
The gun has turned around
MEN – Beautiful and Black
A Family Tree
Cursed be Canaan;
a slave of slaves
shall he be to his
brothers.
Genesis 9:25
Pitch sun-child drowns in the Mississippi,
washes away chains of loneliness, floats
a drum beat on the Nile.
Daughter of Ham lies on a church floor;
filled in orgasm with her Maker,
a spent lover ignorant of a hard bed.
The sperm of a million nights
sings loud over the southern skies;
– Sirens to a nation’s conscience.
A babe of illusion has been born.
She will tell the world of rainbows;
And kiss the holes in its eyes.
Sunday
Each Sunday
the people of this town
would go to church