Sunday Stanza: Poem Twenty Seven: Consent by Hannah Williams

I say it with her.
I say it for her.
Then I let her say it with and for herself.
We both learnt to say it.
Before we are reduced.
For you saw her innocence.
What was it made of?
It was laced with naivety
Intricately woven with virtue.
Hemmed with impeccability.
You took each stitch off.
With your seam ripper.
We could call it patriarchy.
We could call it male dominance.
We could call it chauvinistic.
We could call it a power bias.
It need not matter the new names we give to old gods.
For the crimes you committed against her, I will ask God not to spare the rod.

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