She

Maybe read this: a post of mine from the past (2018) before reading the following poem. And maybe think about this statement made by Margaret Atwood, probably the foremost and best known Canadian feminist after being accused of misogyny: "In times of extremes, extremists win. Their ideology becomes a religion, anyone who doesn't puppet their views is seen as an apostate, a heretic or a traitor, and moderates in the middle are annihilated."

She 

The stoutest of stock before she became she,

the champion of millions through uncompromisingly

fierce female lifeforce.

The apotheosis of innumerable generations, she emerged.

She grew mighty guided by

the calloused hand of wisdom,

a hand that had shucked fieldfulls of corn;

had socially snapped beans into soup

for the souls of loved ones;

a hand that had held a first dollar and a last;

a hand that could be heavy

when hubris got out of hand;

a hand gently holding hers, wrinkling as she became she.

A hand that set hers free.

 

Then came he, the he of she.

How he hoarded her and she he!

Hormonal harmony obscured from shame by desire,

Cognitively coerced by bohemian euphemism:

“He fell for her innocent charm.”

“She was attracted to his ambition.”

For a while they indulged each other’s lusts

bound by this contractual guile.

Who would fall first and by what harm

the goddess Irony determined.

 

Innocence faded, ambition grew.

So ends the honeymoon for these two.

The attributes they spoke of smugly

had shrunk and grown and made them ugly.

And what do ugly people do? They fight each other tooth and nail.

Wage war, the height of ugliness, with which ugliness they assail.

A second he, a second she, the first he in sex therapy.

He cheated she. He could you see, while claiming “sick” and “weak” to be.

Fleeting are beauty and sex appeal, but she stays young and fit and healthy.

She thrusts and swipes her card with zeal, his ugliness has made them wealthy.

How long can this warfare go on while happiness is on the skids?

She can’t admit this union wrong! So strengthen it by having kids.

A second he, a second she, but this time it is literally.

Chips off the block, apples near the tree, she’ll groom them very carefully

With manicured hands and psychology she’ll raise a second he and she.

She’ll right the wrongs of parenthood – the abuse her generation withstood.

She’ll call the mediocre good, give what her parents never could.

She’ll raise no hand to discipline. Say no a few times then give in.

She’ll write it all down, legislate! Empower the certificate.

With love she’ll kill the he she hates. She’ll he-ify till power equates.

Or maybe just a little more to make things more she than before.

Because she is she he will agree. If not, what use is he to she?

Her independence he impedes! She knows exactly what he needs:

Just like her parents before he, her enemy needs to set her free.

 

She has the job, she has the home, she has the kids, he’s all alone.

She was entitled to this all. She had to rise, he had to fall.

So he fell first, she was victorious through manipulation laborious.

His past achievements – all vainglorious. Is there any doubt who is the sorriest?

 

The spoils of war a wide wasteland for she.

A pampered hand shucks no corn and snaps no beans.

Abandoned femininity leaves no loved ones

to consume the soulful soup of kindness. 

Only comrades in war who parrot propeganda

comfortable in their echo chambers.

The hands of hubris hold the assets of the war.

Her final thought before returning to the

fierce female lifeforce form:

Who has suffered more than she at the hands of she?

 

And if you read this poetry and think, “This sounds a lot like me,”

There is a chance you will agree, she is she’s own worst enemy.