March 13, 2018

Prosetry: “Farmer”

Warning: the following piece contains sexual imagery, strong language, and ideologically-sensitive material. Reader discretion is advised.

Neanderthal-troglodyte posing as compassionate soul-saver wants to get me in the tub (sack). “We’ll wash the dirt off you, Judy. You’ll be cleaner than a lifetime supply of Sani-soap. There’s a proper lady under that doo-rag somewhere.”

He guffaws at what he classifies as cleverness: “doo” (“poo”, also the kissing cousin of “fuck”), and “rag” (“menstrual pad”, close relation to “ragamuffin”, acquaintance to “muff”, as in “diver”; as in, “one who eats pussy around the obstacle of a woman’s untrimmed pubic accoutrement”).

“Darling,” I coo (a bird of prey—open claws, poised to swoop), “Must you make it so easy for me to unman you? The tedium of uninspired repetition clangs a dull gong in the courtyard of my muse’s mausoleum palace. You are too facile—too excitable—to resist.”

I must find my moral bearings to restrain my bear trap from further clamping around his public scandal, as I, too, have known the metallic clang of silver soup spoon on steel-wrapped bars. Neither do I aspire to grovel and submit to the will of an interloping shaman who misinterprets my personal tome—Volumes 0-35, defining the life of a cowering little woman obeying the spectral commands of a deceased girl’s hallucinations.

“Your domestic slovenliness and bowed-up defiance are ruining my fantasies,” he counters, jaw working overtime—a cornered snapping turtle. “I can’t defile a working woman unless she’s working on my dime. Be a good subservient–play along like the other pretty-baby dish cloths. They are always eager to sop up my scum. Can’t you be more like them? If you’re extra nice, I’ll reward you with an unlimited supply of empty promises and puerile threats. You won’t sleep a sound wink again under my tender lovin’ care.”

Evolution has done his kind a great disservice. Our primitive ancestors seemed to have achieved dominance by resorting to literal sticks and stones to domesticate their unwilling house pets. The self-titled masters have reverted to flimsily-manipulative porch-screened shame lectures and dated sexist self-esteem degradation to agitate their attempted prey.

Even so, I can’t see him as less than human. We share a species in common, at least.

“I choose not to defer to the majority consensus, and you yet confirm my suspicion you are one of the same fractured souls you seek to save. Mistranslate if you must. Each day, I rise above your secret suffering and pray for that miracle you shun. Now, you may not take possession of my scorn, grown too late to cease maturation. Move on along,” I rat-tat, and shoulder the weight of my solitary pack—implicit inequality—but I’ll have none of that.

He hands me a dog-eared bible and a lanyard crucifix. “Only God can help you now.”

I cast his meagre offerings into the fire (I, not he) invented; take my sharpened stake, drive it into my land, hoist my wind-song flag as my virgin sweat stains the earth in the shape of a flowering ellipsis. Mother Earth nourishes. The soil is fertile, wet. Wick.

“Only I can help myself.”

Wishing him well in the matter of his self-circumcision, I bury seeds he neglected to plant.

***

“Farmer”
© Jane Bled 2018
All Rights Reserved.

Inspired by Farmer Joan, who produces this hempseed oil by Evo (it’s delicious and nutritious). My husband purchased a bottle for my recent birthday. Thank you, love! ❤