Sons of God

THE woman are bruised

With stormy skin and veins of lightning

And the men they knock with their fists coloured in

Out of her jawbone

Comes a crown

Out of her womb comes kings

I stood at the stove and kneaded our children till they were cinnamon

While he sat at his throne and drunk away at his power and might

And then the men make us pray for them

Or to them, whichever one.

Is this love?

Do the men know what love is? I don’t think they realize

That being a woman

Means we break more spectacularly.

THE woman are bruised

With stormy skin and veins of lightning

And the men they knock with their fists coloured in

Out of her jawbone

Comes a crown

Out of her womb comes kings

I stood at the stove and kneaded our children till they were cinnamon

While he sat at his throne and drunk away at his power and might

And then the men make us pray for them

Or to them, whichever one.

Is this love?

Do the men know what love is? I don’t think they realize

That being a woman

Means we break more spectacularly.

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