Deeper than bone
deeper than muscle or sinew
or tenacious tendon
this howl of ages
rivers through bloodlines, ancient as oceans
salty as the primeval seas
this is what happens to women who
out-step their bounds
dare to be bold, brazen
speak up, name the subterfuge
women who grit their warriors’ teeth
fight on, for their children
their lovers, their nation
their homes, their hearts’ desires
branded as heretics: witch, bitch, cunt, whore
they race through forests and fields
trying to outrun the acrid scent of their own sweat
running from the hellish hounds
the priestly proclamations
the wrenching bite of the strappado*
running for their lives
caught between sinner or saint
rarely allowed sovereignty over Self
over mind & womb, over laws meant to undo them
Thousands of strangled cats launched the Plague
tender necks swinging from tree limbs
flaccid, cold paws an omen: the rats will have their day
Crucibles of change, cauldrons
of sorrow, voices stymied for eons by the threat of extinction
womb-wisdom silenced by public outcry
burned at the stake of cultural conditioning
the subterranean outrage
seeps out, sharp as knives
sharp as memory
sharp as justice denied
sharp as the bloodied knives
eviscerating their midnight powers
Deep is this grief
Deep this anger
A dirge of rage lost to the winds of time
The weeping memory wails, still.
Hear it the moonless night sky,
touch it in the hot light of noon
smell it in the poisoned soil
taste it on your remembering tongue
see it in the burning irises
that bear witness to this unyielding genocide.
* Strappado is a form of torture, employed by the Inquisitional tribunals against women accused of witchcraft. Victims were suspended in the air by means of a rope attached to their hands which were tied behind their backs, causing their arms to be dislocated.
“Subterranean Rage” was originally published in The New Verse News on May 23, 2008 at
http://newversenews.blogspot.com/2008/05/subterranean-rage.html
Read Meet Mago Contributor, Mary Saracino.
This is an expression, an unleashing, of, ironically, the hounds of pent-up rage, judicious, unacknowledged, worse, at those who have hunted women down to their last “bone…muscle…or sinew”. The rhythm is as relentless as the hunt it portrays, so we can feel the panic, also deep enough to traverse centuries of socially unacceptable revilement, nonetheless accepted, if not approved, by that same society, a misogynous society in which even women will revile other women (or themselves!), to be “tolerated” by the gender holding the reins. Tragic history which will endure as long as men experience woman as the malevolent “other” and have the physical muscle and the moral weakness, to enchain them (and themselves in so doing).
Thank you Mary for giving a voice to our forbidden rage!
What a fine poem that reminds us all where the anger comes from.
As always, brilliantly written, timely and timeless