You call the crone,
expecting to see a sweet faced granny,
ignoring the edge of madness in the cackles,
and anger that comes of watching lifetimes of humanity go by.
You call the mother,
expecting to hear a soothing lullaby,
ignoring the husky tones, secret smiles,
and the sway of the hips that made her mother in the first place.
Don’t call me,
expecting a sweet faced doll,
some comforting image of innocence,
with no wildness inside.
My frailty is my own, as is my strength.
Try and contain me and I will dance
all over the limits you place
and the definitions you try to force.
Ignore my precious ferocity at your own peril.
I am not here to comfort your preconceptions.
I am here for Myself.