Table of Men

suddenly i look old
suddenly i feel ancient
suddenly i’m exhausted
tired and angry
simultaneously
tired of being angry
holding in my words feeling
not worthy enough to speak
but then the creak of hot
air slips through a leak,
through a break in my sleek
skin, through my tight-lipped
body, the freak in me

explodes a torrent of streaming
strings of leaking flame-centered
words burning into an aura of
pulsing particles swimming a sea of
red dots i try to join into a picture of
a story, into a story, into my story
of my need to speak coupled with my fear
of speaking, my awareness of intensity
shadowing my words shrouded in yelling,
cloaked in deep rage, deep deep
rage crimson and black and beckoning
you to hear me to please hear me through the noise
to please hear me to simply hear me over the noise

and not tell me that my rage
makes you feel uncomfortable
because it makes me feel uncomfortable
to hold my body in frozen silence
to move through life with every doorway
every doorway guarded by a man, guarded
by a man telling me to leave my emotions at the door
to gain entry. leave my emotions at the door to gain entry.
leave my emotions at the door if i wish to
not be discarded to be regarded seriously
to eat at your table of men. at the table of men.
to eat at the table of men i am waiting, attempting
good manners at the kids’ table with
children’s portions and a plastic spork,
told to hush, told to quiet down, to not be so angry
while you feed at the trough with a silver spoon.

--Diana Tigerlily, 2004