mayawrites

in response to A Midsummer Night’s Dream

“As she is mine, I may dispose of her;”
The ancient privilege of Athens
Declares:
Her heart is stone,
Her mind is concrete,
Her skin—nothing but a blanket
For hollow bones.

She is wax,
Moulded by society.
She is a canvas—
Alas,
She cannot paint herself,
For she is not a paintbrush.
Her father is.

I am an extension of my father,
An echo of his authority.
I eat for him.
I live for him.
I wed for him.
I choose for him.

In Athens, the rights of men
Are etched in law.
I am to be given—
Not to be kept.

In the night, we dream
Of a cool summer’s day,
Where women are compared to candles—
The only living thing about them:
Their souls,
Which sway in heat
But are blown away
By fathers
Like Egeus.

They write of dreams,
But only men wake up to them.
Daughters are not born—they are betrothed.
Given, not grown.
Promised flowers others have sown,
Then exchanged like coin.

Exchanged with blood and dagger.
Hippolyta and Theseus love
Like a girl loves a ring,
Like a human loves to win,
Like a man loves to gloat,
As a woman silently drops her dress.

The funniest part of all this?
No one is safe.
Peasant,
Duchess,
Queen—
Even queens are tricked
Into loving donkeys,
When their “no” becomes too loud.