LEFT HAND

He told me—

A stout, ancient-looking simpleton,
Who thought himself a man.
I disagreed.

In his time of vague austerities,
He uttered the most foolish things,
Spewing undiscerned trinkets,
Manufacturing hate in my poison sacs.

"Something wobbly about the left hand," he said,
"Its sole aim—to make symmetrical,
Like a drive in the misty wind."

In the same way, he claimed,
A woman’s insufficiency is felt, 
Owing to her absence during the great admonition:
"Do not touch the tree in the middle."

As a leader.
As a daughter.
As a chief.

"Ish, ish..."—a sense of discontent runs sharp
When a woman leads.

So I detested the stout fellow, 
Not for his clout,
But for the thin air feeding his thoughts,
Drifting in little doses.

"Shut it, stout fellow, or I will throw up."
Oops.
I just did.

Dear Reader, 

March has been generous in sending me Muses. She may still have a Muse or two, or maybe nothing more. I can never tell. This,

however, is to all girls (Women) who have had to tolerate negative or foolish remarks from their male counterparts just because they are male. It's time to throw up! 

# Respect yourself and walk away. 

Sr. Esther Koros OSF