The ancestors gape at me while
hiding behind the chains
of marriage motherhood memory.
Hiding behind the curtains
to the kitchens
they toil in till the day ends.
(The day never ends).
Could they dream of nightclubs
pulsing with sex and sweat
limbs flying in the dark.
One grabs you chosen one
face in a pillow
hands pulled back
a stranger’s whimper in your neck.
He saw this before
on a screen.
He gets in
gets off.
Get out.
A silent walk home.
No one waiting there.
The ancestors remember
the grief of girlhood
the brutality of beauty
the misery of maternity
and the echo of aging.
I am alone
and awash in womanhood.
Was it different for you?
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