Virgin

The Lady is nailed to the walls of the home.
Enclosed is the history of my submission.

Pain engraved in the red dress,
blood from the womb of indigenous Aztlán.

And still, blood of Woman marks the image.
Redolent of the Patriarchal storm.

I see you there: Grandmother, Mother, Sister.
Also clothed with these garments of La Maternidad.

We Roar.
The reply: “Silencio”

Suffocate in this frame of expectation.
There stands the restraint—The Lady—Nosotras.

Machismo Mainstream floods our corneas.
Our voices subside to the cave of our being.

We’re thrusted against the Pillar, más y más.
The ravages of the mind. We know our role.

Like the black Moon Goddess at The Lady’s base.
Subordinate to the rays of the Sun God.

The Moon Goddess, dismembered and positioned
in the lone sky by the God of Sacrifice.

We Roar.
“Silencio”

And the influence falls on virginal youth,
The Angel that bears this Cultural Pillar.

The cry of my Womanhood mollified.
Where stands the blame? Y mi voz?

MR

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