Formative years were more destruct
than construct; contradictions riddled
the foundation of our familial structure:
one man tyrannized five females while
in the news, women marched for equality;
called the likes of him a male chauvinist.
Aunt drove a forklift truck, looked like a man,
chalked one up for women’s liberation, didn’t
talk about her sexuality; shadow of illegality
hovering around her – no one dared to ask.
At nine, I questioned the fairness of being
born a girl in a man’s world, felt impassioned
by feminist cries, yet feared my mom would
leave the nest, abandon baking, domestics;
leave us to fend for ourselves – the warm waft
of fresh-baked goods greeting us each day, gone.
Watched my sisters flaunt their womanly ways
for virile young men who flocked to see bikini
clad bodies, ripe and tanned by the sun – who
was reducing whom to sex objects? And…
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