We gather in coffee shops, at the community pool,

in exercise classes or over a glass of wine

and we whisper

about sexual assault

abortions

sexism, racism and the 

masculine attachment to

assault rifles

and after awhile

our voices are no longer whispers

our words become red and sharp

words that feel they could cut

as rage exits our bodies.

 

The unfairness of being held to a beauty standard

that is impossible

exhaustion because we are still fighting for the same rights

we fought for when teenagers, young women

new mothers

thinking that when we became grandmothers

the matriarchs of society

we might get respite

from the red rage

of being denied autonomy.

 

Whispers such as these

might be taking place at the table next to you

though the women are smiling

their heads almost touching

hands wrapped around a coffee mug

or crystal glass filled with red wine

trying not to cut ourselves on 

the ragged edges of our words.

 

We are planning a revolution 

a silent gathering with the last of our strength

with our anger

thinking of our daughters and their daughters

and their daughters

wondering what unspoken injustice

our own mothers and grandmothers

had visited upon them

in a time when dirty laundry

was not aired in public

but kept locked up

the key tossed away.

 

Men have no idea

how could they understand 

the weight of the life we carry

walking to cars at night

with the key between our fingers

or being chastised for our dress

our words, our very sex.

Men don’t see

that we are filled with rage

even as we smile sweetly

move beneath them

touch their hand

as we try not to cut them

with a lifetime of 

whispers.