No Last Name

My life was never an artistic time piece

as if to avert your eyes to the political truth

that my pathology does not exist in a vaccum

that can only be divined by

a God that showers us with red, white and blue.

Tradition, not race, marked my destiny,

my pathology, and unfettered cobblestone

of mixed revolts and rebellions

that can only go so far

if the leash is tight enough.

What made you believe

that I could amble myself up

to a strange man's bed

and not want to fall to the ground about it,

not with shame, guilt, or dispassion,

but with the real sense that something

was stolen from me that night.

Without cause.

Without remorse.

Without a real justification for war.

You can cling to the white dream

as they pass you through

with my tainted blood on their faces.

You can cling to your dreams

as you finally reach the brass ring

that haunted your own blood.

You can arm yourself with the kind of stars

that all but validate the sexual capitalization

of a woman who believed sex wasn't even engraved

into her heart simply because she chose

to fall in love and lust with one man, one woman, one God and one Goddess alone.

What fool ignorant to the rules of feminism

decided that the brink of my life war

was about sex, pain and power

not about sex, pleasure and gain?

Who decided?

Who said?

Who branded me with that condemnation?

Who said that we were not born into a form of raped slavery of our own,

Simply because we have never been catalogued in your legacy of tradition?

Simply because your Western God told us

we do not matter?

Simply because our presence and birth into this land

is enough to say that we do?

You take the indiscriminate whims and guesses of passion from

people that do not know tradition

as I know it

or as you know it

or as politicians like you are trained to know it?

Yet my reasonable fears and tears

are nothing but the delusional rantings

of a shell shocked girl in a bubble?

As if what my grandmothers, grandfathers and faith taught me

don't have a provincial wisdom of their own?

The man in your mirror

has no skill

has no game

only has a will

with no real last name.