A thirteen-year-old girl--my cousin--has
something to share. She is selling something. See the price tags?--she is wearing them.
And this is my America.
In this city, in this generation,
I see showgirl faces adorning
littlegirl bodies. For what?
These dolls are only TEN.
And this is my generation! My America!
Confidently I am told
by "Liberated" women: Nobody forces a stripper to take off her clothes.
Well, I see no one with a gun to the head of
teenagegirlhood, either.
Someone is telling my sisters how to count their worth.
Whispering: sex.
Shame on my people; the guilt mingles with our blood.
And this, this is my America.
For infants become playthings themselves
with a flash of sickening light, it seems to my heart.
Quicker to become women, so they, so we, might
fulfill the desires of men with greater haste.
If you are women, stand up!
Is there none among you who can see?
Don't you carry the burden, my friends, but
Cast if off!
Walk free among free men in this, my America.

01/02/2002

Posted on 01/02/2002
Copyright © 2025 Indigo Tempesta