The Cactus Flower

in a forgiveness workshop a man once asked me

“how do we,” and he looked at me, “how do we

make up for all that man has done to woman?”

•

and I dreamt

of man, eternal being

made into a eunuch, with blank

crotch and smooth curves,

ephemerally striding forth in purple hues.

lacking phallus, he could not betray woman.

is that true?

•

or is the phallus like

the trigger finger of a murderer,

a scapegoat for an act. the murderer

says, “that, that, is my trigger finger.

(would you like to touch it, darling?)

you see, it was not me that killed, it was that.”

the murderer calls his finger the murderer,

dissociates his self from his hand,

by claiming that

the finger is a handicap.

•

the thing is,

neither his finger

nor his phallus

is to blame.

but the failures

of his self,

and other men.

the many other men.

standing behind podiums

orchestrating prisons

of domestic abuse,

directing football fields

of boys, good ol’ boys,

raping mothers

with bayonets,

letting them hang

naked from trees

like strange fruit.

and they watch,

smoking, smoking, smoking

their pipes, sitting in chairs

behind wooden desks, under walls

hung with horns, never missing a chance

to display their bucks. and the horns

thrust, thrust, thrust. if only I could

slap the pipe out of his mouth,

tell him he doesn’t know

about women and eunuchs,

and the rise of purple.

and that

the blood on his own

horns will be the wine

at his last supper, as he

spills his cup

in tribute to a god that

never was.

•

no, to cut the phallus only

takes the edge off, dulls the

horn, so to speak.

but what is even harder

then admitting that, yes,

we are guilty of horn

thrusting, of displaying

our bucks, harder then

saying, “it is i that thrusts,”

is actually holding

the feminine, internally,

and externally and

eternally, protecting

always

the her

within that says STOP,

and stop again. stop

long enough to let

me swell. know that

that my river will

be your tears. go.

smother the world

with oceans of sorry.

gloss the land with

wave upon wave

of undo.

•

but, we are still learning…

buddhism says that now is the rise of the feminine.

and I picture armies of women, gays, trans, bis, marching