Roe Hex

I have nothing beautiful to say

nothing inspiring or positive or forgiving

and I have no desire any more to speak or exist

prettily, so I must begin to question

if I really am a woman.

I want to open my mouth and let the rot seep out.

Let it find them in their cars, in their houses as they sit glazed

in front of the tv or computer screen.

Let it rise like bitter smoke and sting their eyes. Let

it poison them from the inside. And let it creep, this toxin,

this gas, this polluted cloud,

into their mouths and shrivel their tongues.

I don’t get a voice, so let’s see how it goes

when men are deprived. Of speech. Of sound.

Let all male talk

die. Unformed in the throat. Unvoiced, unuttered.

Their words never granted life. Never permitted to roam

out into the world. Yes, if my black cloud

could swallow their voices, all of them, and hold them

locked and silent even for one day. What then? What noise

would women make, in that sudden freeing

silence? We would not have time to list the grievances

And griefs.

To tally up the weight we hold, the lives we drag along,

to fume about the things we were made to keep.

A bitter cry, a howl, a shriek. Inhuman sounds.

Let it sink in. Let something

deny them, for a change.

***

Nicole Beck (she/her) lives and writes in Philadelphia, USA. Her flash fiction has appeared in Rue Scribe, Passengers Journal, The Cafe Irreal, F3LL, Tempered Runes, and Landing Zone. She also writes book reviews of science fiction and fantasy for Strange Horizons. Occasionally she pops up on Instagram (@nikolbolt).