Orders for The Fourth Wave Brigade

Fertilize the Feminist for the Fourth wave.

She is needed for the brigade. 

Arm her with mirror

And tell her to call it Goddess.

Arm her with an audience 

And tell her to call them Sisters.

Arm her with a voice

And tell her to call it Ancestor.

The Fourth Wave rises in Her name.

Arms unfolded, fists up in rage.

Steady as you watch her days.

Mother moon plays tricks on the tide,

Tempting one to hide.

She is needed for the brigade.

Unfinished feminism forms in the wake.

She drifts closer a little each time,

But you must show her the prize;

The Fifth is on the rise!

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A Moment

Forgive me.

I left chocolate ice cream stains beneath your chin.

I wanted to indulge in your young soul for a moment more than socially appropriate.

A precious memory to be sewn into my long term and yours for the time being.

Over time you have retreated; waning your womanly characteristics into the child your mother must have known.

In a bittersweet, didactic daydream, I connect with your mother. I washed your hands and cleaned your face with the napkin.

At this moment I know I have exactly four minutes to collect.

To learn the fast facts of your history, ancestory, and memories, before the reset button functions without fail.

One moment to use the tongue your mother bestowed because you forgot the one handed to you in school. Tell me of the mallet that whipped a whisper.

Lend me one moment to tell me of the time you left your future husband on his knees for weeks, begging for your hand to please.

And let me steal a moment to remember when you found religion at the bottom of a sack of carrot seeds; hands blistered by the weeds and threw care to the breeze.

Lend me a moment more to collect these memories so that I may be a record for the family of the grandmother who lived in the moment

Because that’s all that ever existed.

Days like These

Days like these

We worship.

We worship it,

Not for its perfection,

But for all the moments we wish we could have taken back.

For all the words we should have inhaled instead of spewed.

Days like these

We sit on our thrones alone

Because power comes at a mighty lonely price.

We practice our goodness but never quite get to genuine.

It’s days like these that remind us where we are.

Who has come before us

And how we will pave the way for the others.

Days that are long,
Hard,

And slow.

But worth every hustling minute.

We will remember the glory of these days

Not for its perfection

But for its purity.

Mornings with You

Collect my love puddles and recycle them back to me

Puddles from the sweat behind my knees, praying you and I will be.

Clutch the emerald rosary

between our fangs.

Pain lingers 

And that’s how it’s supposed to be.

Sink them deep, my crimson cabernet is yours to keep

Slackline on the silverlining to the highest star

Bring me back to my body

Only you,

The keeper of my puddles, my crimson, my heart.

-Words by Jasmine Duran and Luiz Castro