I started with an apology to Hera,
I told her of the misread stories, portraying her as nothing
But jealous and conceited.
A woman, destined to be passed over.
Her beautiful robes wrinkled,
Those wide eyes turned tired.
How long, lovely lady, have you been pretending?
This standard of beauty, built eons ago
By selfish men with greedy hands and coal for hearts,
Let it go, lovely lady, and breathe.
I turned my hatred to Zues,Ā
For every lightning bolt he threw I roared thunder.
āTake what you want and laugh in the face of objection,ā
I said, voice rumbling with the grief of the girlsĀ
Whose stories were forgotten.
āIt does not make you a hero.ā
The ground crumbled as the titans of old roseĀ
Zues no longer mighty with his stinging bolts
And fragile fantasies.
To Hera and the girls she made into enemies,
I give my fury.
I moved to the sea, and followed the sirens calls.
Their hair matted and thin, teeth sharp and hands cold.
Women thrown from boats on mere superstition,
Mothers and sisters and daughters.
Writers and poets and teachers.
I commended them for their hatred, I cried for their loss.
Surrounded by bones and wrecked ships,
We collected seashells, ears ringing with the vengeance
Achingly beautiful and terrifyingly harsh.
I could not save the sirens,
But I left with a shell in my pocket,
and at night, I press it against my ear
And I can hear their cries.
To the sirens, I give my remembrance.
The woods were silent as I traveled through, dropping acorns and peach pits.
I retold Hansel and Gretel to the trees,
The witch who saved the children from a wicked mother
The witch that never burned.
I brought no matches with me, even as the cold grew, seeping through my sweater,
Chilling my bones and the spirit beneath.
The story finished and I stopped, face turned towards the sky.
To all the witches I gave the story,
That ends happy,Ā
With a witch that had no evil glint in her eye.
Far away from Salem, the ghosts of boils burned my feet,
The stench of smoke stung my eyes.
To all the witches who burned,
I give my sorrow.
I curled up on a porch swing, wrapping an old quilt around my shoulders.
I imagined it was an embrace as I closed my eyes.
The sound of motherās voices singing lullabies filled my ears,
My eyelids drooped,
For once I felt safe.
The world around me softened into pastels,
Sunsets my mom would point out on the quiet evenings,
Rosy skies and pale, freshly cut grass.
I pulled memories from dusty boxes and held them to they sky,
Gifts, for the childless mothers,
The girls who never asked for the responsibility.
The doting mothers with the gentle smiles and the loud laughter,
The women who set down the career and picked up the broom,
The women who refused, and are no less mothers for it.
I file the memories in order, smiling at the image
Of the teenagers who brought snacks and offered a ride home,
Babysitters who were there more than birth parents.
Girls who grew up too fast.
To the mothers, I give my thanks.
I finished with a promise to myself.
Lying in bed, I traced my hands down my body,
Over the lumps and bumps, smooth skin and prickly hair.
I closed my eyes and focused on the beating in my chest.
I dedicated a heartbeat to Hera and the lost girls.
Another to the sirens stuck in perpetual agony.
One went to the witches who burned, and the others who refused to.
I sent one away to the mothers with the souls that shine.
The rest, I kept close.
I let go of the beauty standards created by men who have no say over me.
I let go of the hands trying to drown me, and trusted in the waves to carry me home.
I let go of the smell of smoke, and decided to wield the fire as my own weapon.
I kept the gentle embrace, but I didnāt hide in it.
To myself, I give my love.
