by Andi Myles
A letter to my daughter on the fall of Roe v. Wade
Our mothers lied
telling us the fight was over and failing to mention
the last woman to be burned at the stake has yet to be born.
A job and credit card, too easily satisfied
women dying at man's discretion—
our mothers lied.
Our failure deserves your scorn.
Daughter, lift weights, run fast, live with apprehension
the last woman to be burned at the stake has yet to be born.
Rape—unatoned, power—withheld, we barely tried.
Not the same, not equal, pay attention:
Our mothers lied.
Fearsome bodies—feared—mourn,
mourn. Shaped and sold, recrafted in one dimension,
the last woman to be burned at the stake has yet to be born.
My alarms are tardy and time-worn,
this is your moment of intention:
Our mothers lied
and the last woman to be burned at the stake has yet to be born.
