The morning news reports a study,
somebody’s findings of a direct correlation
between high crime rates and populations
having an above-average percentage of men,
the commentator finishing with a bold
caution against a world of men.
But what of a world of women,
where the generations of mothers suffer
anxiety through the unremitting rebellion
of clear-skinned daughters in slinky dresses,
and the generations of daughters endure
the open arms of the long-suffering?
It’s not quite like utopian page turners
scribbled well over a century ago,
where the children of women wander
insouciantly, protected by watchful trees,
where the queen of the forest reclines
against an oak, nursing her young.
Instead the story of a planet of chairs
dusted daily but seldom warmed by
girl bones, mother spread, grandmother
ache, this the house that Jill keeps
for herself, armed with 39 bleached socks,
a loaf of bread, and a pair of pinking shears.