I Ask the Impossible

Photo credit: chilombiano from morguefile.com

I ask the impossible: love me forever.
Love me when all desire is gone.
Love me with the single mindedness of a monk.
When the world in its entirety,
and all that you hold sacred advise you
against it: love me still more.
When rage fills you and has no name: love me.
When each step from your door to our job tires you–
love me; and from job to home again, love me, love me.
Love me when you’re bored–
when every woman you see is more beautiful than the last,
or more pathetic, love me as you always have:
not as admirer or judge, but with
the compassion you save for yourself
in your solitude.
Love me as you relish your loneliness,
the anticipation of your death,
mysteries of the flesh, as it tears and mends.
Love me as your most treasured childhood memory–
and if there is none to recall–
imagine one, place me there with you.
Love me withered as you loved me new.
Love me as if I were forever–
and I, will make the impossible
a simple act,
by loving you, loving you as I do

~ Ana Castillo

I Ask the Impossible

Photo credit: chilombiano from morguefile.com

I ask the impossible: love me forever.
Love me when all desire is gone.
Love me with the single mindedness of a monk.
When the world in its entirety,
and all that you hold sacred advise you
against it: love me still more.
When rage fills you and has no name: love me.
When each step from your door to our job tires you–
love me; and from job to home again, love me, love me.
Love me when you’re bored–
when every woman you see is more beautiful than the last,
or more pathetic, love me as you always have:
not as admirer or judge, but with
the compassion you save for yourself
in your solitude.
Love me as you relish your loneliness,
the anticipation of your death,
mysteries of the flesh, as it tears and mends.
Love me as your most treasured childhood memory–
and if there is none to recall–
imagine one, place me there with you.
Love me withered as you loved me new.
Love me as if I were forever–
and I, will make the impossible
a simple act,
by loving you, loving you as I do

~ Ana Castillo

Women Don't Riot

Photo credit: clarita from morguefile.com

Women don't riot, not in maquilas in Malaysia, Mexico, or Korea,

not in sweatshops in New York or El Paso.

They don't revolt

in kitchens, laundries, or nurseries.

Not by the hundreds or thousands, changing

sheets in hotels or in laundries

when scalded by hot water,

not in restaurants where they clean and clean

and clean their hands raw.

Women don't riot, not sober and earnest,

or high and strung out, not of any color,

any race, not the rich, poor,

or those in between. And mothers of all kinds

especially don't run rampant through the streets.

In college those who've thought it out

join hands in crucial times, carry signs,

are dragged away in protest.

We pass out petitions, organize a civilized vigil,

return to work the next day.

We women are sterilized, have more children

than they can feed,

don't speak the official language,

want things they see on TV,

would like to own a TV--

women who were molested as children

raped,

beaten,

harassed, which means

every last one sooner or later;

women who've defended themselves

and women who can't or don't know how

we don't--won't ever rise up in arms.

We don't storm through cities,

take over the press, make a unified statement,

once and for all: A third-millennium call--

from this day on no more, not me, not my daughter,

not her daughter either.

Women don't form a battalion, march arm in arm

across continents bound

by the same tongue, same food or lack thereof,

same God, same abandonment,

same broken heart,

raising children on our own, have

so much endless misery in common

that must stop

not for one woman or every woman,

but for the sake of us all.

Quietly, instead, one and each takes the offense,

rejection, bureaucratic dismissal, disease

that should not have been, insult,

shove, blow to the head,

a knife at her throat.

She won't fight, she won't even scream--

taught as she's been

to be brought down as if by surprise.

She'll die like an ant beneath a passing heel.

Today it was her. Next time who.

~ Ana Castillo

Women Don't Riot

Photo credit: clarita from morguefile.com

Women don't riot, not in maquilas in Malaysia, Mexico, or Korea,

not in sweatshops in New York or El Paso.

They don't revolt

in kitchens, laundries, or nurseries.

Not by the hundreds or thousands, changing

sheets in hotels or in laundries

when scalded by hot water,

not in restaurants where they clean and clean

and clean their hands raw.

Women don't riot, not sober and earnest,

or high and strung out, not of any color,

any race, not the rich, poor,

or those in between. And mothers of all kinds

especially don't run rampant through the streets.

In college those who've thought it out

join hands in crucial times, carry signs,

are dragged away in protest.

We pass out petitions, organize a civilized vigil,

return to work the next day.

We women are sterilized, have more children

than they can feed,

don't speak the official language,

want things they see on TV,

would like to own a TV--

women who were molested as children

raped,

beaten,

harassed, which means

every last one sooner or later;

women who've defended themselves

and women who can't or don't know how

we don't--won't ever rise up in arms.

We don't storm through cities,

take over the press, make a unified statement,

once and for all: A third-millennium call--

from this day on no more, not me, not my daughter,

not her daughter either.

Women don't form a battalion, march arm in arm

across continents bound

by the same tongue, same food or lack thereof,

same God, same abandonment,

same broken heart,

raising children on our own, have

so much endless misery in common

that must stop

not for one woman or every woman,

but for the sake of us all.

Quietly, instead, one and each takes the offense,

rejection, bureaucratic dismissal, disease

that should not have been, insult,

shove, blow to the head,

a knife at her throat.

She won't fight, she won't even scream--

taught as she's been

to be brought down as if by surprise.

She'll die like an ant beneath a passing heel.

Today it was her. Next time who.

~ Ana Castillo