This is for all of the women, the women that long for us to be, that grip the fabric and bite down hard to bring us forth screaming. For the women, inheritors of misery, worlds of love and beauty and joy and loss, who suffer from choices we make in their name. For the women, the center, tattered edge, the sky and the deep, the rock and the bird, creatures of habit, seekers of peace and prophets, the women who watch other women grow tired of tales told by men with their weight upon breasts, mouths like razor-blades, fists like train wrecks. Yes. I want her to levitate, soar above men so he can feel her varied beauty reaching down to seal his unbridled destruction forevermore. Women who see laws wielded, the dead sea thrust inside them, vacant fathers, distant, hulked, sterile, envious brothers, self-righteous and much too proud. The women, with a beauty and boldness, (men, with their hideous eyes, cannot mirror them feeding on drunken valor and rage) are most ready. This is for she wh
(The Weaver's Song)