Atoms, Atmosphere and Music
Poem of Witness
The numbers he whispered in her ear, slick with boasting and confidence, felt like a bribe. A bribe, a crumpled bill being waved in front of her nose before being stuffed in her panties.
Women are born with price tags on their wrists and dollar signs stamped on their breasts. To be bought, like plump peaches at a farmers market, and then devoured. Men barter with all the riches of the world, gold chains, chocolate and perfectly ripe strawberries. They promise adventures, like petting a tiger with bare heels and swimming among skylines of coral.
They want their women in boxes, cased in cellophane, smiling stiffly, to buy and trade. They want plasticine perfection, worth only their bankroll.
But this is not what we want. This is not the currency we wish to use. We do not want to sell our wishes, words, and wondering minds to the highest bidder. We are not succulent fruit, waiting to be devoured. Keep your crumpled bills and coral lies, for we are worth so much more.
Women should be seen as they are, powerful creatures from Mother Earth’s bosom, wrapped in the very atmosphere they breathe. Men should sing poetry and hold their dreams in their open palms as offering, not whisper lewd dollar figures over naked shoulders in crowded rooms.
We are the heroines, the lovers, the dreamers, raising daughters whose heads brush the edges of the sun, with eyes that are laced with electricity like the vibrant summer sky.
We are the rumble of rapids over ancient rock, and possess the same gravitational pull that drags wingless creatures downwards. We are pieces of art broken free from our gallery cage. We are atoms, atmosphere and music. We are women.