by Lindsey Funtik, Coordinator of Volunteer Ministries, Ashland First United Methodist Church, Ashland, Ohio
You may pour your wine in the dust
because I will not come.
My breasts are not your golden goblets,
my navel is not held open by your
colorful linen chords,
the roiling ocean of my hips
does not exist to keep your armadas afloat--
I dare you to test your
you would sink and drown,
intoxicated by the crushing power you
will never understand and
have no desire to pursue.
Weep and rage and flip your silver couches.
I will not come.
you now see this feminine counterpart,
this party not gifted description,
as the velvet threat that it is.
From whence once lounged docile hens,
now springs phantom tigresses
with hungry snarls and snapping jaws,
painted ruby red,
which you had not thought to consider,
Come closer, let me lift this veil ever so slightly
that you might dawn into knowing
all your fears are founded,
all your suspicions are correct.
Corral your bulls,
put your hairy heads so close together
they knock with your rattling
tremors of panic.
Howl like whining hyenas from spires and ramparts:
“Give us your respect!
Come on, give it!
Or else you’ll take it all?
Or else you’ll make an example?
Or else you’ll prove your own point?
Proclaim so loud and strong
that the insidious, sounding peal will
echo through the centuries,
will twitch the bejeweled ears
of my sisters,
the crowns of creation,
who will raise their regal heads,
nod toward me in the distance
still will not come.
Cross-Posted from "Reflections on Faith, Words, and The Holiness of Today"