Medea's Ideas

Every two fortnights

the clock is set right.

I take the world’s beating

and bleed permission

to nest, rage and cry

that I will not supply

one more man

to overpower another.

For I am the remnant

of every time my mother let it go

the trickle down

of the bloodline

the heavy flow

of rage, soaked over generations,

of anger stored in white knuckles

on hold for want of privacy.

‘A room of one’s own’

becomes a luxury

when space time heir

nothing belongs to me

except my cunt - back sewn,

means-of-production: withdrawn,

seized, barren, empty.

What are the male names for these?

Dirty Diana’s cyclic spell

like clockwork from hell

chimes: woman, bleeding, rise again

another birth, deprived again.

It’s not life-giving-force

if it’s giving-life-forcefully.