FOUR POEMS by STEPHANIE HOLDEN
in sunday school, the Pastor calls the bible feminist
the truth is this: mary magdalene
knelt before the cross and wept
and for this was a prostitute
and for this was a sinner
the truth is this: David of Israel
voyeurized a woman—bathsheba—who was pure
(and for this was a prostitute) and so He raped her
and for this was forgiven
and for this was a saint
the truth is this: jezebel of tyre worshiped Baal
—who we call Yahweh—and His wife asherah
and for this was a prostitute
and for this was a sinner
the truth is this: Samson of Israel
loved a refugee—delilah—who did not love Him back
(and for this was a prostitute) and so He killed a thousand of her people
and for this was a hero
and for this was a martyr
the truth is this: mary of bethany
anointed Jesus's feet with perfume
and for this was a prostitute
and for this was a sinner
and martha of bethany prepared food for the Lord
and for this was an ingrate
and for this was a sinner
the truth is this: there was always more than one God
there was always a woman
god was always a woman
the truth is this: there were always more than 12 disciples
12, that perfect number of Men
12, the Sons of Israel
12, the age of the Lord at His first sermon
12, too, the stars on the head of Christ's bride
—who in childbirth brought forth destruction—
12, only good in the hands of a Father
the truth is this: thou shalt not plant any tree as an asherah
beside the alter of the Lord thy God
thou shalt erase her from thy memory
thou shalt forget
and if thou art a woman, thou too shalt be forgotten
ashes to ashes
dust to dust
until only Man
remains
I dream myself a baseball bat, a bullet, a baton.
I dream blood. I dream + an orange sweatshirt and a face + shaped like shame. I dream myself + Macbeth, standing in the hurricane, and I + dream myself Macduff, head in hands. I + dream myself the Lady, disturbed and + dirty and + dead off-stage. I dream myself + Medusa, monster that she is, and I + turn Perseus to stone. This power is + mine alone to hold. I dream myself + the Hydra and + Hercules who killed her. I dream myself + poison, cause of my own + death. I dream myself + Edith, wife of Lot. I + see the sins of man and turn + to salt. I dream myself + Eurydice, lover of Orpheus. A man + sees me and I + am lost. Everything a woman + does + is wrong. I dream myself + a voice of violence. I + dream my knuckles cracked. I + dream my tears livid and + living and + strong. I dream myself + to fight, + to fight, + not flee.
I wake + a weapon + sheathed.
how the stillness feels
I feel you chipping away at my ribcage with
a silver spoon, carving a hollowness
so vast that it consumes me
I feel you settling into my bones, lingering
until they grow porous and weak
I feel you working my body into a dust so fine
even the earth does not feel me
return to it, prepared to blanket the
land with
my emptiness
I feel you kneading loneliness into my skin
until it becomes one of the tones in
my complexion
I feel you numbing my tongue and
fingers and stomach, until even the
nausea becomes only a dull ache in
my lungs
I feel you curling cold fingers around
my breath, pulling it from my throat
until not even air is left inside me
I feel you, and you feel like nothing.
I feel you, and I feel like nothing.
myself, monster
myself, medusa, turning smug smile to stone.
he attacks my temple
& my tears turn to rock. I never let another touch
myself, melpomene, muse of misfortune.
he steals from me what matters most
& makes it a devil. but the sirens still
sing, and I am unremembered and masked and not
myself, circe, carving hog from human.
he washes up on the island of my isolation
& I know no better than to love him.
but he knows only to take, to take, until my skin
clings grey-green to the space where I used to keep
my self, medea, manhandling and murderous.
m yse lf, scylla, six-headed and hungry.
my s e l f, mare of diomedes, man-eating and mad.
m ys e lf, sphinx, sinister and strangle-happy.
m ys e l f, melanippe of the amazons, black-hearted and barbarian
m y s
e l
f
,
myself, mary, mother of monsters.
magdalene, tudor, harris, shelley—
it matters not. all are maidens of rebirth
& destruction. all are all that a woman can be:
remembered for the misery she makes
& the man she molds as a martyr
Stephanie Holden (she/they) is a Halloween-loving queer living in New Orleans, Louisiana. She writes poems about love, trauma, gore, and the self. Her interests are fantasy books, body modification, and the South. She has two cats, a bearded dragon, and deep love for frogs. Find her writing at The Journal of the Wooden O, The Kennesaw Tower, The B’K, and Hearth & Coffin, her art at BEST SERVED COLD, or her narcissistic tweets at @smhxlden.