Tradition is the province of men,
my womanhood ruminating in the sticky yard
always conjuring something new.
Each day remembers its ancestors,
is fermented and furrowed by them.
But my hands are a seraphim’s gadgets,
my breasts turrets in a house that isn’t mine alone.
A man repeats and repeats,
A warning siren to the beasts of shore and sea.
We will build as we have built,
but will not fight as we have fought.