...The story of a girl in London, England


Sonnet 38


The feminist within me prickles quick

When any man begins again to drone

That old familiar phrase, which makes me sick:

A woman’s proper place is in the home”.

Tradition binds us, grinds us, holds us there—

Explaining, as they clip our wings so young,

That mothers, wives, are needed! Love and care!

And patronizing, slit our woman’s tongue.

But how can you expect a bird to fly

If mother bird has not the wings to teach?

And how, to speak, to make a wise reply,

If mother’s voice is silenced, out of reach?

A mother and a wife I may well be,

But let me find myself! Then we will see.

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