Wednesday, May 14, 2014

And you call yourself a feminist

Angela, oh Angela, how do we break the spell?

Angela Carter
Crone you say.
I think of witches’crooked noses,
hairy chins with warts,
black holes instead of teeth,
then look into the mirror
for evidence
of my decay.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall
Has my face begun to fall?
Has my bloom begun to pall?
Am I ugly after all?”

Faithful mirror replies:

“Deep lines here, and here, and there,
Cracks are spreading everywhere
Tufts of grey sprout in your hair
It’s a stretch to call you fair.”

Crone you say,
meaning well, I know, and yes
it’s true enough, yes,
I’m no spring chicken now.
But it’s not age I hide from:
it’s irrelevance

I really dread.

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